


No More Regrets

by offtheball



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Jolly - Freeform, Love Triangles, Multi, No Smut, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Post Reichenbach, Sherlolly - Freeform, johnlockly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offtheball/pseuds/offtheball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Sherlock's staged suicide, and at Sherlock's request, Molly comforts the grieving John. As their relationship develops, she must contend with her lingering feelings for Sherlock, and her guilt at concealing the truth from John. Meanwhile Sherlock is preoccupied with the dangers which still plague himself and his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after the events of Reichenbach. Season two spoilers apply.
> 
> The canonical three year gap set forth in the original story The Empty House has been shortened for the purposes of this story to six months.
> 
> I've tried to work in some details of The Empty House, while leaving much of the action itself untouched. Ronald Adair was made into an Australian Senator, with some made up political background, but otherwise the case has been left as close as possible to the original.
> 
> See the notes at the end of the story for recognition.

"But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

He gulped, and placed his hand briefly on the tombstone. He gave a quick salute, then turned and walked away. His legs were stiff, and he was quite sure his knees weren't bending properly. His breathing was swift and shallow, and his vision slightly blurred. He recognised the symptoms of anxiety coming on. He reached the church and found he couldn't go any further. He slumped against the stone wall, bracing himself, and focused on his breathing. His hands were clenched and shaking, his knuckles white. He needed to get a hold of himself before he went into a full blown panic attack. Not here. Not in this place. This was his grave, and he wouldn't allow himself to lose it here. He felt hot tears start to trickle down his cheeks.

He stood there for a few minutes, calming down. His vision sharpened again, and the pounding in his head subsided. His fists loosened, and he was suddenly aware that he was incredibly weak. He nearly fell, but managed to keep himself upright long enough to slide back down to the ground safely. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. His breathing was slow now, steady. He tried to visualise his pain seeping out of him in his breath, as his psychiatrist had suggested. It was working, but he wasn't sure he wanted it to. It felt like a betrayal of his friend.

He heard a soft crunching sound from his left. He opened his eyes and rolled his head over to the side. Molly was standing there, watching him. She seemed worried. He supposed she should be. He was not exactly stable these days. He forced himself to stand, and smiled weakly at her. Since Sherlock's funeral, he'd managed to contain his weakest moments to times when he was alone. Had she seen him cry? If not, she must have noticed the state of his face by now. He wasn't sure if he should say anything. He was sure he'd cry again if he tried, and part of him really wanted to.

"It'll be alright, you know," she said finally. He simply nodded. She bowed her head and went to move past him, to the grave. She stopped next to him and reached out, touching his sleeve reassuringly. "I mean it."

Then she let go and walked on. He didn't look back at her. He just limped back to the car park to meet Mrs Hudson.

* * *

Deep breaths, Molly. You can do this. She pressed the buzzer, one ring, strongest under the half second, just as instructed. She waited for a few seconds, then the crackle as someone picked up the intercom.

"H-hello?" John's voice was unsteady, nervous. She supposed it was a cruel trick to play, but Sherlock told her it was the only way to successfully engage him. It had been a week since she'd seen him at the cemetery, and he'd worsened considerably. Sherlock told her that he'd not left his home since. She asked how he knew, and he'd said something about his homeless network. She hadn't felt quite so comfortable since.

"It's me," she replied, doing her best to sound bright and cheerful.

A long pause. "Who?"

"Molly." She blushed. Stupid. "Just thought you might like some company."

He didn't speak for some time. "I appreciate it. Really, I do. But I don't want your pity."

She faltered. What had Sherlock told her to say? "Well, I'm going to grab some coffee around the corner. You're welcome to come." Did she really have to say this next part? It sounds so stupid. "If convenient."

My, that was a big sigh. He sounded like he was thinking. Funny, that. It seemed silly, but she could almost hear it.

"Alright. Give me two minutes. I'll grab my coat."

Sherlock's advice had worked for getting him out of the home, but beyond that, he couldn't give her much to work with. She thought of Sherlock, and wondered how he and John had become so close. They walked down the street in silence, John's head down the whole way. The first time he spoke after leaving the house was to order a latte. She asked for the same, and insisted on paying. They sat opposite one another awkwardly as they waited for their drinks. Finally they came, and they sat there for ages, nursing them.

"So," she started. "How are you feeling?"

John took a deep breath, sipped his coffee, and looked out the window. He shrugged. "You know. Can't complain. Not within the bounds of reason, at least."

"Right. Of course." She took a sip of her own coffee. It was terrible. "You know, if you ever need to talk about it, or anything..." She trailed off. John simply nodded, looking at her. "I mean, I wasn't as close as you were, but I thought of Sherlock as a friend." She laughed. "Not sure if he did, but I did."

He sighed loudly. "I'm sorry, Molly. I know that I wasn't the only one who cared about him. My psychiatrist says I'm being selfish, and that I've every right to be selfish for a while." She nodded as he took another sip from his coffee. "Only problem is, I don't know when to stop."

"He meant a lot to you."

John shook his head, and she could see tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. "He was my best friend. More than that. The best friend I have ever had."

She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. "Tell me what you liked about him."

A sharp intake of breath. "He was," he buried his face in his right hand, breathing deeply. She waited. He looked back up at her. "He was brilliant. The first time we met, it was like he knew everything about me. He made you feel vulnerable all the time, like he was looking into your soul, but there was no malice. When we met, he knew me, intimately, but I trusted him. I mean, he was an arrogant sod, but if anyone ever earned the right to be, it was him."

Molly was nodding. "He was remarkable."

John nodded, then stopped abruptly and looked at her. "Was?" His eyes darted over her, his eyebrows furrowed. Then he stopped and rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm grasping at straws."

"Sometimes, straws are there to be grasped at," she said softly. Then she pulled back. "Wow. That may be the dumbest thing I've ever said."

Before he could stop himself, John was laughing. He covered his mouth and chuckled, looking at her. "I wasn't going to say anything, but yeah, it was something special."

They both laughed now. It wasn't forced for either of them. After a minute or so, the laughter subsided, and she saw the sadness creep back onto his face. His eyes wandered off and his smile fell. She reached out and laid her right hand over his left. He smiled again, forced this time, and turned his hand over, clasping hers. And then he was crying again.

They finished up their coffee over the next half hour. She managed to get him to laugh a few more times, though she couldn't keep him from crying. She almost joined him once. She knew Sherlock was alive and well, of course, but it was causing him so much pain. She hadn't taken the opportunity to speak to him much before. A few conversations here and there, always guarded. This was the first time she'd seen him be genuine, and he made a good impression. She'd wondered for some time what had drawn Sherlock to him, but she could see it now. It was in his smile.

They walked back to his flat afterwards. They stopped outside and stood awkwardly for a moment.

"Um, listen," he said, breathing deep. Then it seemed he'd forgotten what he was going to say. "Thank you. For getting me out of the house today. I uh," he chuckled, "I had fun."

She smiled broadly. "Me too." He seemed like he wasn't sure if he should leave or not.

"Well, I'll see you later," he finally managed to get out, then he walked up to the door of his building. She imagined he wanted to disappear fairly quickly, but he'd neglected to get his key ready. He was standing there for a good twenty seconds fumbling with his keyring as she giggled at him. Finally, he got the door open, and he stepped through. They waved to each other, and she walked off.

* * *

When Molly arrived home later, Sherlock was waiting for her. She turned on the light and he was sitting at the table. She threw down her keys in front of him. He'd startled her the first few times, but she was well used to his presence now.

"How was it?" he asked her as he picked up the newspaper beside him. She wondered how long he'd been waiting for her to get home before reading it. He smuggled himself about in disguise, usually sneaking into her building as a janitor, but he refused to have the light on while she was out.

"It was fine," she replied, moving to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of juice. "Would you like anything?"

"No, I'm quite alright, thank you," he mumbled, having become thoroughly engrossed in a story. "Page five, bartender. Blood beneath the fingernails and cuff of his shirt. You'll find the victim's library card in his right jacket pocket." He couldn't solve cases openly anymore, of course, so he usually gave her the answers and enough clues. A couple of times, she'd passed the information on to Mycroft, who'd seen to it that justice was served in his own particular manner. Mostly she tried to drop hints around any visiting officers. Two had already been promoted in this fashion.

She placed her glass on the table and took out her hair tie. She'd gotten awfully comfortable around Sherlock these past few weeks. She felt as though they lived together. The thrill of that had not yet faded. She sat down opposite him and watched as he read the paper, looking for a challenge.

"He laughed," she said after a while.

The edge of the paper dropped instantly, and Sherlock was peering over it, scanning her. She wasn't sure what details he was taking in exactly. His eyes finally settled on hers, and a smile crossed his lips. "The laugh was genuine?"

She nodded. "Yes. I said something stupid and he laughed at me. I did, too, though."

"Good." He flipped the edge of the paper back up. "You're bonding. He needs to bond with someone. That's important for people, isn't it?"

She didn't bother to answer.

* * *

"No. No, I can't believe it!"

John shrugged. "It's true. Not once."

"But, how? I mean, you're British. It's pretty much in our DNA."

"Ahh, well, you see, my great grandfather was Dutch. Not the best memory." He winked and raised his hand, asking the waiter for more water for the table. "On the bright side, though, he did pass on a flair for botany."

"Oh?" She intertwined her fingers before her and rested her head on her hands. "So why did you become an MD instead?"

"I'm a rebel," he replied, smiling slyly. They both laughed, and she noticed that he was blushing ever so slightly.

"So, seriously. Do you even know who Tom Baker is?"

"Of course I know!" He took a sip of water. "He was the narrator in Little Britain."

"He was?" She thought about it, and felt like her life suddenly made a lot more sense. "I suppose you're right."

"'Course I'm right. I'm the Doctor." He poked out his tongue, and she burst out laughing, hitting his forearm playfully.

It'd been two weeks since they'd gone for coffee. Sherlock hadn't asked her to spend as much time with him as she had, but she found he was fantastic company. Every so often she'd see him looking off into the distance. He'd stopped crying openly some time ago. When she told Sherlock this, he'd done little more than nod. It seemed as though it upset him, in a way. Their relationship had always been complicated.

In those two weeks, they'd had coffee twice, two lunches, and were now having dinner. She'd seen him more than Sherlock, actually, who seemed to have developed a habit of being absent on days she was seeing John. He'd stop by during the days following, generally. She supposed that he knew of her plans through his homeless network, or perhaps Mycroft had someone following her.

They finished dinner, laughing freely, and ordered dessert. He got a small slice of cheesecake, and she got the fruit pavlova. They finished their dessert, and about fifteen minutes later asked for the cheque. They both made to grab for it.

"Now, come on, I insist," he said, pulling it towards him.

"No, no, I insist," she said, pulling back at it. They pretended to glare at each other and cracked up simultaneously. "Half each?"

He nodded. "Seems fair. I am unemployed, after all." They laughed awkwardly and dug into their wallets. She knew he had inherited a considerable sum from Sherlock, but she didn't know how much or what he had left of it. She was trying to gently encourage him to return to practice, but he kept saying he wasn't ready.

They made their way outside, pulling their coats around themselves. The weather had taken a turn, and it was far colder than she'd anticipated. She was soon shivering.

"Are you alright?" he asked her. She nodded, and he reached out his hand and felt her fingers. "Dear god, you're freezing!"

"It's okay. I'll be fine once I get inside," she said, her teeth chattering. She curled her fingers around his hand, and he squeezed gently. He seemed nervous, then turned and wrapped his other arm around her. She blushed, and let go of his hand. His other arm slid around her side, and she slid her hands inside his coat. She rested her head on his chest, and one of his hands moved up to cradle it.

She could feel her heart beating in her chest. She wasn't quite sure what she felt at this moment. She could tell from his breathing that he was enjoying the contact. Was she? She'd not seriously considered anything romantic with John previously. She'd pegged him as her type, but did she actually want that? And what about Sherlock? Her feelings for him had not ceased.

She moved her head back and up, mouth slightly open. He looked at her, with those big blue eyes. He was smiling, the warmest smile she'd ever seen. Before she knew what she was doing, her head was moving forward. Their lips touched lightly, cautiously. Then with more force. The hand on her back moved down to her hips and pulled her body towards his. She leaned back, pushing her hips forward, and he bent her backwards ever so slightly.

They remained entwined for almost five minutes. She found herself completely lost in the kiss. All her doubts were washed away as she breathed in his cologne. She noticed for the first time that his arms were surprisingly muscular. He didn't typically dress to show it, but it made sense, with his military history.

Finally, he moved back, and rested his forehead on hers, panting slightly. She kept her eyes closed, her hands now on his chest. Without either of them opening their eyes, he spoke. "My place is pretty close by, if you want."

She almost said yes out of reflex, but suddenly remembered all the reasons she shouldn't. She struggled with the offer for a minute. She so badly wanted to say yes, but it was wrong on so many levels. "I'm sorry. I can't."

He nodded and kissed her forehead. "That's fine," he said softly. "It was good, anyway, getting to kiss you." He smiled and kissed her forehead again. "Worth it."

She smiled, then tilted her head up. They kissed again for a few minutes, until finally they parted. They pulled their jackets around themselves once more. A taxi came, and John opened the door for her. She thanked him and hopped in.

Before he closed the door, he popped his head down. "I'll see you soon?"

She smiled and nodded. "Definitely." Grinning, he closed the door, and the taxi moved out.

* * *

Molly spent the next few days alone. Sherlock wasn't there when she got home, of course, nor when she returned from work the few days after. She was actually quite pleased. She wasn't sure if she could bear to see him. She knew there was nothing between her and Sherlock, but still she couldn't shake the feeling that she had betrayed him. She'd seen others before during the course of this crush, of course, but this was different. This was his best friend. And she felt closer to him now than she ever had before.

She could remember the small, shameful thrill she'd experienced when Sherlock approached her for help. For a while, she'd imagined that he was interested in her. Until she'd started spending time with John, he'd visited her almost every day. She tried not to read too much into it. She wasn't sure how to read into anything Sherlock did.

Two days after they had dinner, John sent her a message:

"Going back to practice on Monday. Thanks for all your help and company :) - JW"

She responded in kind, but tried to keep anything romantic out of her text. She went about her life and did her best not to think of the whole mess.

On the following Tuesday, five days after her dinner with John, she finally saw Sherlock. She'd just gotten out of a shower. She was brushing her hair, a towel wrapped around her, when there was an urgent rap on her door.

"One minute!" she cried out. She put her brush down and was about to leave for her bedroom to get some clothes when her alert tone sounded. She picked up her phone. It was a message from Sherlock.

"Hurry, it's important- SH" it read. Confused, she walked swiftly to the door and opened it. Sherlock ducked in and closed it quickly but quietly behind him, leaving a hand on the doorknob. He looked out the peephole nervously.

He seemed to be out of breath. His shoes were caked with mud, which he'd tracked in with him. He was wearing a short coat and blue jeans. His face seemed to have been smeared with soot. She was quite aware of the stench of rum on him.

He reached his hand over and flicked the lights out. In the hallway, she heard a door open and close quietly, followed by slow, muffled footsteps. Sherlock peered eagerly through the peephole, a syringe readied in his hands. He couldn't see much in the darkened hallway. He'd had someone throw the switch for the hallway lights before he entered the building.

He did wish he'd been able to do this elsewhere, but the situation had arisen rather unexpectedly, and had to be dealt with swiftly. He could organise no better place than Molly's on such short notice. She was smart enough to remain silent, observing his nervous manner. He also knew she could be trusted to follow instructions, so if things went awry, he could text her details of her cover story.

There! Creeping along the hallway was the darkened figure of his assassin. He was one of Moriarty's men. He'd been posing as one of the assassins, but Sherlock had recently discovered he was directly under Moriarty's employ. He'd been tasked with ensuring the others behaved to convince Sherlock of the fictional key.

He had also been John's gunman.

Evidently, he'd not been entirely convinced of Holmes' death. He'd been tracing through the remnants of his life for the past month, and finally learned of his homeless network tonight. They had been unfortunate enough to bump into one another beneath a bridge a few blocks away. Having been taken by surprise, the man was armed with nothing better than a glock. His shots had missed him, often by mere inches.

There was just enough light by the moon at the end of the hallway to follow the tracks from Sherlock's boots, which he'd been sure had enough mud for the task. He'd tracked the mud to the door just down from Molly's apartment, turning into the doorway, making sure to move close enough to Molly's door that he could enter after tracing his way carefully back without disturbing the deception.

As expected, the man drew his weapon as he saw the terminus of the tracks. He was just outside Molly's door at this point. He moved past, and Sherlock moved swiftly, silently. He'd oiled the hinges on Molly's door a week earlier, noting the possibility her apartment offered for ambush. The assassin became aware of the disturbance just as the needle slipped into his neck.

He was surprised, but slumped into unconsciousness quickly. Sherlock swiftly dragged him into Molly's apartment. He pressed a finger to his lips, went into the hallway, and closed the door behind him. He hit the send button on the message he'd prepared to Molly earlier, telling her to remain calm and do nothing. He turned back the way he came and traced over his tracks as carefully as possible, then fell headfirst into the door to which the tracks led. He slumped down to the floor, and was struggling to pull himself up when the light inside flicked on and the door opened. A man stood there in his night gown, scowling down at him.

"Sh-shorry," Sherlock slurred, shielding his face from the light, and handily obscuring himself. "Lights are out. Couldn' quite find my way."

Rolling his eyes, the man closed the door once more. Sherlock looked about himself, confused, then shuffled back off towards the exit.

Molly waited inside on her lounge, eyes locked on the man lying within her apartment, hugging her knees. Five minutes later, her phone alert tone sounded once again.

"Sorry about the mess. I'll clean up - SH"

She shuffled over to the door and opened it. Sherlock came in, flicking on the light. His shoes had been cleaned, or perhaps swapped entirely. He kneeled down before the man, placing his right hand to his neck and looking down at his watch.

"Pulse is good. He should recover in about an hour." He looked over at her, and his eyes widened. "You're in a towel."

She blushed and looked down. She'd somehow completely forgotten. "Sorry," she mumbled, heading off to her room. She did not notice his eyes follow her out. She grabbed some jeans and a shirt and pulled them on, not bothering with a bra. She walked back out to see Sherlock preparing another syringe. He knelt beside the man and injected it into his neck, carefully trying to place it back into the original puncture wound. He had to force it a bit for the swelling, but he managed. An unnecessary precaution, but no point adding to the risk. "Who is he?"

He stood and sighed. "His name is Bartoloměj Svoboda. He worked for Moriarty, posing as a common assassin to ensure my downfall."

"Okay." She wasn't quite sure what to say, and looked between them for a while. "So, um, sorry, but what is he doing here?"

"I'm sorry. He discovered me unexpectedly. I'd only just managed to identify him and his affiliations when he ran into me downtown." He spread his hands in apology. "I had nowhere else prepared for this kind of situation. I'm so sorry."

"Prepared?" she asked. "You prepared my apartment?"

"Well, only a little. Didn't take too much. Just oiled the hinges on your door and had someone ready to kill the lights."

She nodded and sat down by the table, elbows on her knees. "What will you do with him?"

Sherlock gave her a long, sideways stare. He simply said, "you'll never be tied to it."

She glared at him. "That's not what I'm concerned about."

He nodded. "I understand." She looked thoroughly unconvinced. "Okay, well, I don't really understand, but I comprehend the concepts." She stood and walked to the kitchen with a sigh. "It's not as though I want to!"

She almost laughed as she stuck her head around the corner. "Of course you don't want to. That almost makes it worse. You don't feel one way or the other about it."

He seemed confused. "Of course I feel. I'm not a psychopath." He walked over to Bartoloměj's head and pointed at him. "This man was John's. If I hadn't jumped off of St Bart's, this is the man who would have killed him. He was also Moriarty's right-hand man throughout the ordeal. Moriarty maintained a loosely connected network. It was too much of a liability to have much of an inner circle.

"Don't you see? This man was entrusted with the task Moriarty assigned him: ensuring my downfall and my death. He wasn't a friend of Moriarty's; he was a follower, elevated to the role of disciple. He will not rest until his plan is carried out, and if it means not my death, then the death of my friends.

"You say I don't feel? No. I do this because I feel so deeply. I do this for my friends, because," he paused and looked over at her, "the safety and happiness of my friends is paramount."

She was silent now. The mention of John hadn't helped her feeling of superiority. Sherlock cared enough for him to kill. Even for him, she knew that was not an easy ask. Should she tell him about what had happened? She couldn't justify not.

"Sherlock," she began nervously, stepping forward. "About John-"

"I heard he went back to practice," Sherlock interrupted, smiling at her. "I trust you're largely to thank for his emotional recovery. Thank you for helping him."

She nodded. "There was something else. Last Thursday, after dinner-"

"I know," he interrupted again. He smiled at her, in that pained kind of way he had that day at the hospital. "I have eyes all over the city, and given the current climate, they're all trained on my friends."

They stood in silence for a while, eyes locked. It wasn't malicious. She wasn't sure what it was. She got the feeling he was trying to reassure her while sizing her up. Finally he cleared his throat.

"I'll need some privacy in dealing with this matter. Probably best if you go to bed, and it'll be sorted by morning."

She nodded. "Will he suffer?"

He shook his head. "No. Suffering's too messy. He'll be unconscious until the end."

"Okay." She turned to go back to her room, then reconsidered. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she was standing in front of Sherlock, and her arms had slid around his waist. He hesitated, then returned the hug. They held it for a minute, and then she moved away. "About John, I just thought you should know, I don't think anything will happen with him."

"Oh?" He looked her over again. "You're clearly infatuated with him."

She blushed. "Maybe. But it's just too...I can't, with you, and he. I can see how much he means to you."

"The safety and happiness of my friends is paramount", he repeated. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. It wasn't the same as John's kiss, but it made her smile regardless. "All of them."

* * *

Mycroft strode confidently down the hall to his office, a stack of files in his hand. The top one was flopped open. Some matter of the gravest importance you need not concern yourself with. His secretary jumped up and opened the door as he approached. Thanking him, he entered.

"Hello, brother dear," Mycroft said, not raising his eyes as circled around to the front of his desk. He placed the files down next to his cup of tea and looked up at Sherlock, sitting in the chair opposite him, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck and an umbrella clutched in his hand.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied, somewhat coldly. It was hard to pick from his usual manner towards him, but Mycroft knew his brother well. "Still working on that case of the Norwegian Prime Minister?" Mycroft snapped his files shut, and Sherlock laughed at him.

Mycroft straightened his shirt as he sat. "You know, you might have called."

"Worried about me, were you?" Sherlock brushed a piece of lint from his trousers. "I couldn't have called. Your lines are constantly monitored."

"Now, now. You know my ways around that." Sherlock motioned to a point in the corner of the ceiling. "Disabled this morning. Figured you'd be dropping by, what with the Czech taken care of." He laughed at the look of surprise on Sherlock's face. "You think your network of vagrants is loyal to you? As you so often say, they're rather shameless about taking bribes."

"Well, then. I see no point in delaying with our usual pleasantries." Sherlock leaned forward. "I need your help."

Mycroft sighed. "You understand that I am not, in fact, the British government? Even I have protocols, channels of authority. They may be few, but I cannot simply choose who in the world to kill."

"You owe me this, Mycroft."

Guilt. An odd tactic for his brother. He'd learned much from his time with ordinary people. He'd learned their styles of manipulation, though he may not understand them. Unfortunately, they were brutally effective.

"Very well," Mycroft opened his second drawer, and pulled out another plain manilla folder. "Of course, with the Czech gone, we've only one assassin left. Ludmila Dyachenko. Intelligence places her in Germany, on assignment. But what of the remaining gunmen?"

Sherlock reached into his coat and produced his own folder. "I've identified both, but I can't track them. Stefan Fleischer, Mrs Hudson's. He was doing work at 221B. Plenty of CCTV footage there."

"I won't ask how you came by it."

"Lestrade's is a junior detective. Patrick Harrison. He started four months prior to the trial. He's still there, undoubtedly waiting for Moriarty to call him off. Apparently he's unaware of his death."

"Moriarty's dead? You're sure?"

"Quite. Svoboda was undoubtedly responsible for clearing the evidence."

"Well, that's one name I can cross off my list." He sighed and picked up the files. "Well, we shouldn't have much trouble with Fleischer. As for Harrison, that'll take some work. We might be able to turn up some dirt on him, else we'll need to frame him."

Sherlock sat silently for a while. There it was. He'd killed once already, and now he was setting in motion the death of three more. Could even he bear the weight of it?

Finally he spoke. "Fleischer and Harrison. I want to be there."

"Not Dyachenko?"

He shook his head. "Dyachenko must be dealt with, but I've no personal feelings against her. Fleischer and Harrison were going to kill my friends."

Mycroft chuckled. "No personal feelings. Since when do you have personal feelings at all?"

Sherlock looked him straight in the eye. "Since John."

* * *

Even with Sherlock's blessing, she didn't act immediately. Sherlock and Bartoloměj were gone on Tuesday morning. The knowledge that a man who'd been in her apartment was now dead somehow turned her off dating for a bit.

In the end, it was he who contacted her. She was at work on Wednesday when she got the message.

"Wondering if you want to see the Hobbit with me tonight? - JW"

She didn't reply straight away. She was halfway through preparing a culture, and even if she could have responded, she needed to sort out how. She so desperately wanted to see him, but she was still too conflicted. She finished up her culture and went to the loo. When she got back, another message had appeared.

"I promise, it's not a date - JW"

This made her chuckle. "I'd love to. Time/place? - MH"

They met at Odeon at six. He'd shown up early and bought their tickets; "to celebrate my renewed employment", he said. They walked into the cinema together and John led them to a couple of seats up the back, over to the left.

"You know, I can't help but noticing, for a not-a-date, this certainly is a date-like spot to sit," she said as she placed her bag next to her.

"I suppose it is. We could move, if you like," he offered. He seemed genuinely concerned. She smiled and held out her hand, which he took, and they sat down together.

Throughout the movie, they whispered little jokes and observations to one another. Their hands remained together for much of it. About halfway through, she pulled back, and lifted the arm on her chair. She turned and leaned against him, one hand resting on his thigh. His arm slid around her waist, and suddenly, they stopped talking. They were both focused entirely on the feel of the other, their breathing, their smell.

It seemed as though the movie was over all too soon. She gave his thigh a light squeeze before she got back up. They both stretched out - apparently they'd both opted to put up with the discomfort rather than move from their positions.

"So, do you want to grab a quick bite, maybe some coffee?" John asked as they left the cinema. She nodded, and they made their way to an ice cream shop nearby. She got a single scoop, he got two.

"So, what'd you think of the movie?" she asked him. She wasn't quite sure she wanted to have the other discussion, just yet.

He nodded. "Very good. I was rather concerned with the casting, when I heard about it, but Jude Law does a surprisingly good hobbit."

"I know, I couldn't see it. He just seems too...tall, doesn't he?"

John nodded and laughed. "It does help that he looks that good, though." He paused and chuckled. "Well, there goes my heterosexuality."

They laughed again, and ate for a while in silence. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"So, uh, Molly," he began, nervous. "I hate to bring this up, but I'm just a little...confused." He looked her in the eye. "What are we? I mean, I didn't hear from you for a while, so I thought the kiss was a one time thing, but I don't think I imagined what was happening in the cinema. I don't want to pressure you. I just want us both to be clear."

She pushed her dessert away and clasped her hands, biting her lip softly. "I'm not sure," she began. She could see the disappointment in his eyes. "I mean, I know that sounds like a cop out, but things have been complicated for me, lately."

"Complicated?" he asked. Then he smiled and nodded. "Do I have competition? 'Cause if I do, they should know that I know karate." He put on a mock proud face. "Well, I mean, I know bits and pieces. Mostly just bits. I mean, I've - I've seen the Karate Kid, and it didn't look that difficult. I've been practising my waxing." He flexed.

She laughed and reached her hands across the table, taking his. "I do like you, John. I really like you." He smiled at this. "You don't have competition. I just need some time. Time to stand still, or go slow, I'm not sure." She reached a hand up and stroked his face with the back of her fingertips. "You've definitely piqued my interest, though."

He moved his head to the side and kissed her hand. She retracted them, then moved her chair around next to him. She slid her right hand up his thigh, placed her left on his shoulder, then leaned in and kissed him. He moaned softly as he pushed back against her, their lips coming together over and over again. His hand moved to her side and up, brushing slowly past her breast.

She pulled away, aware that they were very much in public. Their display had been brief, and no one seemed to have noticed, but she sensed that they were probably both going to want to take it further.

They left the shop and walked towards the nearest main road, hand in hand. They turned to each other and kissed, their tongues sliding together, hands roaming freely, for a few minutes. She traced her way down his back, along his hips, and he ran his hands along her thighs and up her back. They finally separated, panting, and moved into a long hug. With her head on his chest, she could hear his heartbeat.

They finally each caught a taxi, and waved awkwardly to one another, laughing at themselves. They went their separate ways, and thought of little but one another until they were in bed - and, at least in Molly's case, for some time after.

* * *

Patrick sat in the interrogation room, arms folded smugly before him. He'd been sitting there for almost an hour, but he'd learned a lot of patience in his time. He still didn't know what the charges against him were, and rather suspected there were none.

A grim-faced man in a suit entered. He was in his late forties, by the look of it, with receding brown hair. He sat down with a slight groan and placed a file on the table before him. They stared at one another, silent. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them blinked more than was strictly necessary.

"Do you know why you're here?"

He grinned. "Did I run a red light?"

The suited man did not seem amused. He slowly opened the file before him. Inside were no fewer than fifty sheets of paper. He took them up, looking at them slowly. Patrick couldn't help but sweat a little bit, wondering what could possibly be in there.

"Tell me, Patrick," the suited man finally spoke. He gingerly removed a photograph from the file and placed it in front of Patrick. "What do you know of this man?"

Patrick picked up the photograph and examined it, puzzled. "I've never seen him before," he responded, truthfully. He slid it back.

"Perhaps you'd recognise him by his handle? ArtemisJones78. In 2007, he hacked into MI6's criminal database and wiped the top twenty entries. From the primary backup, he wiped all but. In 2008, he was involved in the kidnapping of a prominent Russian politician's daughter. Later that year, he hacked into the phone of a Danish minister and tweeted 'lol im so gay'. He was briefly employed by News Corp afterwards until he hacked Rupert Murdoch's phone.

"In late 2010, he forged papers for a group of Chinese thieves in pursuit of a priceless hairpin. Since then, he's been writing malware and running Internet scams. Ring any bells?"

It honestly didn't, so Patrick merely shook his head.

The man smiled. "Of course not. That's okay, though. Your Internet traffic speaks for itself. Over the past six months, you've established thirteen secure sessions with a server of his in the Netherlands. We have three wire transfers to a sock account of his in that same period. Your Internet history places you in two of the same forums as him, and your IRC logs place you within the same conversations on six occasions."

Patrick was flabbergasted. "That's impossible. I've never heard of this man!"

Another warm smile. "Naturally. We have enough here to tie you to several crimes, including illegally accessing government servers." He leaned down on his fists, his face close to Patrick's. "We can put you away for a long, long time. But not just yet."

He stood and snapped his fingers, and three armed men entered. They slapped handcuffs on him before he knew what was happening, and pulled a black bag over his head. They lifted him by his armpits and dragged him off. He went through three sets of doors, the last one coming off a narrow passageway. He was placed in a car. He was aware of the four bodies around him as they drove off.

The trip lasted twenty minutes. He had no idea where they'd wound up. He was pulled from the car and across rocky ground. He noticed the smell of mould and chemicals. No light filtered in through the holes in the bag. He guessed it was an abandoned factory of some kind. They stopped, and he heard a door creak open on rusted hinges. He was thrust forward into a much brighter room and shoved into a chair.

"You may go," the suited man's voice said. He heard footsteps as he walked about them. "I should warn you that escape is impossible. This room is surrounded by highly trained, bloodthirsty killers, and they're itching to get home to their families. They will not hesitate to fire."

His hands were lifted from behind, and a key inserted into the cuffs. They soon dropped free, and the man moved off. He heard a similar jangle of metal on metal twice.

After they'd been uncuffed, he went about pulling the bags from their heads. First Patrick's came off. His eyes were overcome by the bright light, but quickly adjusted. He was seated at a round metal table. Spaced equally were two other men, both with bags still over their heads. A glass of chilled water stood before each of them. The suited man walked slowly around and took the bag off the second occupant. A flash of recognition passed between he and Stefan, but they knew better than to speak.

They both supposed that the third occupant of the room was Bartoloměj. The three gunmen, back together at last. The suited man walked slowly around, and removed the bag with a flourish.

"Holmes?!" Patrick couldn't restrain his surprise. He looked to Stefan, who was as shocked as he. Hadn't Bartoloměj seen him die?

The suited man placed a folder and a small box in front of Sherlock. "I'll leave the three of you to get acquainted," he said. He left the room and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock smiled broadly at them. "Welcome, my friends. Well, my friends' would-be killers. I trust you're comfortable? Never liked the feel of handcuffs myself. I prefer to put them on others." He gave a wicked little smirk.

Still, no one spoke, so Sherlock got straight down to business. He opened the file and produced a small stack of papers. "My brother has kindly prepared these for us. As you know, we've all got crimes on our records, for which we'd undoubtedly be imprisoned for life, if we're lucky. Here's your chance to get out of gaol free.

"Pardon papers. My brother's outside, ready to come in and sign them, no questions asked. There's also immunity from extradition here, if you wish to remain in the UK. It's a nice place to live. Good food, excellent theatre. Is either of you a dentist? I hear that's a lucrative field here."

Patrick was still dumbfounded, but Stefan was quicker on his feet. "Only one set?"

Sherlock nodded. "One set. One of us shall leave this room tonight a free man."

"And the others?"

"Corpses," Sherlock responded simply.

Patrick scoffed. "I wonder who'll get picked. Suit's your brother?"

"I assure you, Mycroft has no say in this." Sherlock opened the box in front of him and produced three pills. He placed one in front of each of them. "Three men. Three pills. Two of these pills contains an extreme dose of a fast-acting Batrachotoxin variant."

"What's the other got?" Patrick asked.

"Asprin. After watching two men die, I thought the survivor might need it.

"The rules are simple. Between the two of you, you choose who will take which pills. We consume them together. Two minutes later, my brother will come in, and sign the name of the survivor on these papers. As you may or may not know Batrochotoxin has no antidote."

Stefan scoffed. "It's chance!"

"It's chess," Sherlock quipped.

Stefan and Patrick's eyes moved down to the pills. They were identical. Patrick picked his up and sniffed it. It was unremarkable. He examined it for markings, but there were none. Looking over to Stefan, he saw that he looked equally stumped. Both were eying Holmes' pill. Surely he would've given himself the safe pill? Patrick made a grab for it, but Stefan's mighty hand came down on his. He screamed as pain shot up his arm, and Stefan calmly swapped his pill with Sherlock's.

Patrick looked up from his hand to Sherlock's face. If he'd had any reaction to the swap, Patrick had missed it. Stefan seemed smug. Thinking it through, it seemed to Patrick that Sherlock would've known they'd assume he had the safe pill, and that, Stefan being the stronger of the two, he would wind up taking it. Hence, Sherlock would get Stefan's pill, which would be safe. Would he count on Patrick working this out, and swapping it? Perhaps he had the safe pill.

If he'd counted on that, then Patrick had the safe pill, and the fact that Patrick had worked that out told him that Sherlock probably knew he would work it out. Yet, he must also have known that this would occur to Sherlock.

Round and round the deduction went, with no end. The only way to tell was to observe Sherlock's reactions. Patrick took his own pill, and picked up Sherlock's in the same hand. He covered them, and then placed Sherlock's back in front of him. A little slight of hand. Sherlock didn't react in the least. In fact, he seemed rather bored.

So, Sherlock must think he now had the safe pill. Patrick's pill, which Patrick had. Stefan was now eying Patrick's pill. He knew that Stefan had been hired for his proficiency with firearms and brute strength, not particularly for his wit. He was undoubtedly stumbling across the endless line of deduction himself at this point. It was difficult to say where he ended up with it. Perhaps he found bouncing between Patrick and Sherlock's pills too confusing, and went with the relative simplicity of his own. Anyway, he didn't seem as though he was going to make a grab for it.

Patrick sat back, satisfied that he had the safe pill. Stefan followed suit.

"Excellent. Now, we take our medicine. Two of us shall soon be dead. The other will experience a slightly reduced risk of heart failure. Together, now."

They all reached for their water and pill. Their eyes were locked on one another. When Sherlock was finished, he opened his mouth wide, lifting his tongue to show that the pill was gone. Patrick did the same. Stefan sighed and reached for the water, taking another gulp, then also showed it was gone.

Mycroft stood outside the room, back to the door. His hands were clenched within his pockets. Sherlock had insisted on this foolish plan, but he'd only gone along with it because his brother was so stubborn. They were in there for almost five minutes before the screaming started. It was sudden. He couldn't tell from the horribly mangled cries if any of it belonged to Sherlock.

The screams went on for a full minute before they slowly subsided. Eventually, there was no sound from within. Mycroft swallowed nervously and turned on his heel. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

"Worried about me, brother dear?"

* * *

Molly and John agreed shortly after their date to avoid seeing each other too often. They'd text each other a few times throughout the day. She'd poke fun at him for his love of jam, so he'd sometimes send her pictures of interesting jams he found, trying to convince her of the merits of the food.

Sherlock had been gone for almost three weeks. She and John had met about four times, usually winding up in a secluded part of London, pressed up against a wall somewhere. He never asked her to go home with him, or tried to take it further. She was feeling the urge to, but she couldn't bring herself to do it until she knew what was happening with Sherlock.

Then, one day, she got home to find Sherlock sitting on her couch, a book open on his lap. He closed it and smiled at her as she entered.

"I hope you don't mind," he started, holding up the book. It was Gulliver's Travels. "I've never read it. Always insisted that fictional reading didn't matter. It is fascinating, though."

She smiled back. "Glad to see you're still in one piece."

He nodded. "More or less." They remained silent for a few moments. "I've, uh, concluded my business."

She wasn't sure she wanted to ask how many more people he'd killed. "Would you like some tea?"

They sipped their tea at the table, mostly in silence. They avoided the topic of John for a very long time. Sherlock mostly asked about her work, and interesting cases she knew about. She had three more solutions to unsolved crimes by the time they were finished.

"Uh, Molly," he began, gripping his empty cup. "About John."

She gulped. "I imagine your eyes about the city have brought you up to date?"

He shook his head. "No. I instructed them not to collect any details of your involvement with him. Just enough to know you're both safe and happy."

This surprised her. She wasn't quite sure what to say, so she merely said "thank you" and left it at that.

He reached into his bag and produced a folder filled with newspaper clippings. "I need to start organising my resurrection. I've found an interesting case for John to work on. I've instructed Mycroft to bring it to him," he looked at his watch, "right about now. He'll be resistant. If you're comfortable with it, I'd appreciate it if you could keep him engaged."

She pulled the folder over to her and looked through the clippings. The murder of Ronald Adair, an Australian Senator. She'd heard of the case, though she'd not paid it much attention. Sherlock had collected a lot of information on it.

"Why are you giving him a case?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "We began solving cases together, and whatever our relationship became, it was always a part. I suspect it will ease the transition for him to be able to latch onto the more professional aspects of our relationship."

More professional aspects. She thought again of the way Sherlock's supposed death had affected John. There had been rumours going around that they were more than roommates. More than friends. She'd never placed much stock in them. She didn't think Sherlock had the capacity for anything like romance, even while she desired it from him.

Which brought her to another thing which bothered her. Did she still want that from Sherlock? She was used to him paying her little attention, if any. She couldn't help but notice that, apart from his recent adventure, he was spending a lot of time at her place. She didn't quite know what to make of that, and with John, it was perhaps best that she not try to make anything of it.

"John should have familiarised himself with the case by the next time you see him," Sherlock said, interrupting her thoughts. "You owe me no favours, of course. You've done enough in helping him thus far."

She sighed and pushed the papers away. She needed to take a moment to sort out her feelings. Her feelings for John, her feelings for Sherlock, how Sherlock's return would affect her burgeoning relationship. It seemed selfish of her to be concerned about that at all, but she needed to at least know what she felt.

There was no stopping Sherlock coming back, of course. Even if she wanted to, which she didn't think she did, that was happening. John's reaction to it was difficult to predict. Perhaps Sherlock knew what John would say or do, but to her, it was a mystery. She was still getting to know the man. The distraction of having Sherlock back might pull him away from her, or the anger at her for keeping it from him might drive him away. Was there a situation in which she and John stood a reasonable chance of remaining together?

"I'll do it," she finally said, having concluded that there wasn't. It seemed to her that her relationship with John would soon come to an end. She'd been deceiving him long enough, and for too long, especially with Sherlock's absence, had ignored the wrongdoing. Sherlock was right in that she didn't owe him anything. However, she owed John.

* * *

John stared blankly at Mycroft. "Why come to me?"

"My brother's blogger is superior to most detectives," Mycroft replied. "The Australian government is demanding answers, and we need them quickly."

John flung the file back on the table. "I can't help you. I'm nothing special. Just a blogger."

"And a military doctor who spent much of his time over the past years listening to the deductive ramblings of Sherlock Holmes." John did not react. Mycroft sighed. "Please, just consider the case."

"I have considered it," John said. "Interesting case, caught my attention in the papers. A light gambler, not an addict by the sounds of it, was shot dead in his bedroom. The door was locked from the inside, no signs of entry through the window, and no vantage point from across the street.

"I thought of suicide, but there was no gunpowder residue on his hands, and the ballistics didn't add up. He's not racked up enough debt that anyone would want it back, in fact he's come out slightly on top in his gambling. Someone could want revenge for that, but who'd kill someone for twenty quid? Added to the fact that there was nothing missing, and that seems unlikely.

"The motivation could be political. He's a member of the Labor party, and a fairly quiet one. He tends to vote with the party, and doesn't stand out in any particular fashion. He's fairly progressive for his party, but not overly so. About the most controversial thing he's done is voice his support of marriage equality, but with over sixty per cent of the country agreeing with him on that, it hardly seems a motive for murder.

"The only remaining option which presents itself to me is Edith Woodley. They were engaged, but as I understand it, they broke it off with no hard feelings. At any rate, it's generally known that she's now dating a rather well-off doctor. Could be a motive for murder, but it gets us no closer to ascertaining how it was carried out, and given her high profile and circumstances since, it's hardly likely."

They looked at each other for a time. John could tell that Mycroft was mildly impressed, but really, his deductions thus far were elementary, and they only ruled out motives. None of them got him any closer to an answer.

"What was it my brother always used to say? Something about eliminating the impossible?"

John almost laughed at that. "He made it sound so simple. Eliminate all possibilities bar one, and there's your answer. Hardly an insight. No, his talent was in discerning that one possibility no one else had considered.

"Look, whatever I was, when I was with Sherlock, I'm not anymore. Even if I could help you, I'm moving on. I'm not your brother's blogger anymore."

Mycroft stood. "Very well. Feel free to keep the files, in case you change your mind."

"I won't."

With a nod, Mycroft left. John sat silently for a few minutes before getting up to make some tea. He walked back with his tea and absently picked up the file before realising and throwing it back down again. He made himself some jam on toast, and then sat on the other side of the living room. He felt like it was taunting him, somehow. If it had eyes, he'd swear they were focused on him.

He was familiar with the pull. It was the same feeling he got with Sherlock at the beginning of a case. Possibilities flew through his head so quickly he couldn't keep hold of them. He so desperately wanted to read the file, to pin down some of those possibilities before him, dissect them until he had what he needed, then file or discard. He usually had Sherlock to present them for him, already pulled apart and mashed together into a gruesome and compelling story.

So why was he so resistant? It reminded him of Sherlock, certainly, but as painful as it was, it had lost its edge. It was throbbing, like a persistent headache, but it didn't account for this.

Was he afraid? His adventures with Sherlock often ended in something life-threatening. He'd always felt safe going in, because he knew that Sherlock would find a way out. Without him, wherever this went, if his life was in danger, there'd be no one to save him.

After Sherlock had died, he'd felt like dying, too. He thought he couldn't go on. Every night for the three weeks following, he'd opened his top drawer and removed his gun. He held it, mostly. Just had it there in case. Sometimes he'd put the barrel to his temple to see what it would be like, with only a slight flex of his finger separating him from death.

Then, one night, he couldn't sleep. He pulled the gun out, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He drank, telling himself it would help him sleep. Before he knew it, he had the barrel to his temple once again. Tears were streaming down his face, his heart pounding. With nowhere else to turn, he finally pulled his finger on the trigger. He finally managed to do it.

The revolver had clicked, the chamber empty. His eyes had flung open as he checked. He thought he'd had three bullets left in it, but they were all gone. Frantically, he pulled his room apart, trying to find one. Eventually he passed out, and awoke to the sun streaming in the window. He never figured out where those bullets had gone, but he'd promised himself he wouldn't try to find them.

Then, Molly arrived, so subtly into his life. He barely noticed her presence at first; just part of the blur of faces which rushed past, screaming condolences at him. Slowly, she became more than she'd ever been before. He supposed it was their shared pain which had brought them together. Everyone who knew them both knew she'd fancied Sherlock, and you couldn't help but hate him a little bit for the callous manner with which he'd rebuffed her affections.

No. He wouldn't pursue the case. That part of his life was over. He wouldn't put himself in danger, because he didn't want to leave her. Since they'd started seeing one another, he'd discovered passion again. He felt alive. He loved being with Sherlock, but whatever it brought him was very different to what Molly did now. He didn't want to give that up.

So, he crossed the room, and picked up the file. He went to his desk and opened his top drawer. There was the revolver, empty, useless. It was symbolic, somehow. All of that part of his life would be in this top drawer here, together.

Within minutes, he was pouring over the case files.

* * *

He hadn't slept when Molly rang his doorbell. He checked his watch and swore. He'd drawn the blinds to block out the city lights, and hadn't noticed the sunlight streaming around them. It was now 10am on Saturday, and he and Molly were to be going on a picnic in Hyde Park. He swore, and stumbled over to the door. He pressed the intercom.

"Hi!" her voice streamed through. He sighed at the sound of it, so light and carefree. The case was gone from his mind in an instant.

"Hi, Molly," he replied. "I'm sorry, but I'm not quite ready yet. You can come up, if you like?"

"Sure," her reply came. He pressed the button next to the intercom and waited until he heard the door close noisily behind her. He ran back to his desk and did his best to tidy up the toast crumbs and empty jam bottles. She knocked on his door after a minute, and he opened it.

God, she was beautiful. Her face lit up when she saw him. She had a very light layer of make up on, with bright red lipstick. She was dressed in what looked like a new set of blue jeans, a white blouse, and a brown jacket. She never seemed to make as much of an effort to dress up as other women he'd seen did, but he could swear he'd never seen anyone as gorgeous.

"Hey, sorry about this," he said, letting her in. "I'm just hopping into a shower. I'll be about ten minutes?"

She smiled and nodded. "That's fine. It's a picnic. Not like we have a schedule."

Grinning, he bounced down the hall to his room. He pulled out a grey shirt and a pair of blue trousers. He showered quickly, shaved hastily, and then returned to his room. He looked out the window. Didn't look like rain, but it was cold. He grabbed a long black coat and a blue scarf, which he draped about his shoulders, then returned to the living room.

Molly had her head bent over a book. She looked up at him as he walked back in, and her face seemed to fall for a moment before she picked it back up into a smile.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking down at his outfit. It seemed perfectly alright to him.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just, uh, reminded me of someone. That's all."

He had a quick pang of jealousy. He remembered how he'd felt when he thought there was someone else. The thought of losing her flew through his mind, setting off sparks and fires throughout. He quickly extinguished them, but it wasn't pleasant. He'd never asked her why this relationship was so complicated for her. He thought it wasn't his place. Still, it did worry him from time to time.

He moved over to the couch and sat next to her. Her hand moved quickly to his knee, and she turned her head to smile at him. Grinning, he leaned in, and they kissed. Her other hand dropped the book on the table and moved up to his cheek, stroking it gently, as his right hand moved slowly along her thigh. She moaned softly.

He'd decided some time ago to disengage when he felt the sexual tension rising between them. She smiled happily, and rested her head against his. They remained like that for a few minutes. Finally they parted. John reached over and picked up her book.

"Gulliver's Travels?"

"Yeah. A friend suggested it."

He handed it to her and stood up, straightening his coat. Molly was gathering her things. She looked over to the desk and raised her eyebrows.

"A case?"

"Yeah. A friend suggested it."

They laughed and she picked up one of the pieces of paper. "Poor chap. Who was he?"

"Ronald Adair. Senator from Australia."

"A Senator?" she asked, arching her eyebrows. "Sounds like an important one."

John shrugged. "Mycroft just asked me to look at it, see if anything stood out."

"So, you're getting back into it, then?"

He shook his head. "No. Just this once. I offer my opinion, and that's it. Nothing more than that. I don't want to get back into all of that."

"Why not?" she asked, placing the piece of paper back in the pile. "I mean, you enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, I did. I'm more enjoying my life now, though. I...well, I'm happy now, in a way that I couldn't be with Sherlock."

Molly smiled, and the weight in the pit of her stomach lifted slightly. She'd been wondering how much appeal she'd hold with John once Sherlock returned. Perhaps she was more important to him than she'd thought?

* * *

Molly was pacing her living room. She'd just buzzed John up. She was nervous as hell, and her fingernails were a wreck from the past twenty-four hours. Finally, there was a knock on the door. She crossed the room, took a deep breath as she straightened her blouse, and opened it.

God, that smile. It lit up his whole face; the whole room. Despite herself, she couldn't help but grin in return.

He pulled his right hand out from behind his back. "Got you these," he said, holding a bunch of flowers out to her. A dozen roses.

"Oh, John. Thank you," she said, smiling as she took them. She fetched a vase from the kitchen and placed them on the table as he strolled in, looking around her flat.

"This is a lovely place," he commented. "Is it always this neat?"

"Of course it is. You think I'd clean up just because you were coming over?"

He laughed and slipped his hand around her waist, pulling her towards him. She leaned back slightly as he kissed her. She didn't know why, but right now, today, she felt like it was wrong, somehow.

He sensed this and pulled back. He looked into her eyes, concerned. "Is everything okay?"

She smiled and nodded. She'd never been very good at hiding her feelings, though. He wasn't convinced. She cleared her throat. "Maybe you should sit down. We need to talk."

He nodded and moved over to the couch. He sat down and looked up at her, waiting. She could see the sadness in his eyes, though he was obviously trying to hide it. She stood awkwardly, not sure how to begin. Finally, he spoke. "It's okay. Really, it is. I didn't expect this to last forever."

Her heart broke a little. "No. No, that's not what this is. I'm not breaking up with you."

"Oh." He looked down, embarrassed. "Okay then. Um, what's happening?"

"I might be able to shed some light on that."

John's face went white, his mouth slack, as Sherlock stepped out from the end of the hallway. He'd been in Molly's bedroom, waiting. He strode to the middle of the room, eyes locked on John as John's were on him. John's mouth fell open and he rose slowly to his feet.

Sherlock stopped beside Molly. John stepped slowly forward, eyes darting over Sherlock, trying to find the subtle flaw in what he was seeing that he knew must be there. It was someone in disguise, or this was a dream. It had to be. Sherlock was dead. Moriarty had killed him. He knew this. He'd struggled so long and hard to accept it himself. It had to be true.

Eventually, they were less than a foot apart. John looked straight into Sherlock's eyes. He knew them. This was his friend. He'd memorised those eyes, that hair, that voice. He reached up and slowly, cautiously, poked him. He was solid.

John's mouth had gone dry. He ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth. Finally, he managed to speak.

"What the fuck?" He took a step back and bent over slightly, his hands on his knees. He took a few very deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Then he straightened and turned back to Sherlock. "What the fuck?!"

"I faked my death," Sherlock explained, rather less helpfully than he thought.

"No shit, Sherlock. I had managed to work that much out on my own." John started pacing. "No. No. No. How?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but John waved his hand. "No, nevermind. It doesn't matter how, and right now, I'm not sure I want to hear you jerking off about how fucking clever you are!"

Sherlock was confused. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"Pleased? Pleased?! Do you have any idea what you put me through?!" He turned on the spot, hands clenched in fists on either side of his head. "Fucking hell, I thought you were dead! I had to deal with everyone calling you a fake! I had to hear people all but say they were glad you were gone!"

John sat down heavily on the couch, and tears started to run down his cheeks. "It's been six months, Sherlock. Six fucking months! You let me believe you were dead."

"It was for your own protection," Sherlock said calmly. "You were in danger as long as I was alive. I couldn't risk betraying the secret."

"You mean you couldn't trust me to keep it?" He was shaking.

"Not at all. It was no secret that we were close. Your mourning process needed to be convincing."

John stood and started pacing again. "You put me through hell. Getting over what happened...fuck, I didn't think it was possible. You left me, Sherlock. You left me to deal with that alone."

"Well, not alone. I did my best to see that you had appropriate support."

Finally, John's eyes turned to Molly. The realisation dawned on him. "God. How long have you known?"

"She assisted me-"

"I'm not talking to you!" John snapped. He looked again at Molly, and she could see the betrayal he felt. "It was all for him?"

"Oh, god. No." She moved towards him, but he pulled away. "He wanted me to keep you company, but I swear, the feelings were real."

"I can't believe that," he muttered. "You knew, all this time, and you never told me? You lied to me? This whole time, I was falling-" he paused, unsure of himself, but then continued. "Falling in love with you. And you knew?"

Molly couldn't respond. She didn't know how. She knew she'd betrayed him. There was no good excuse for it.

After a few moments of silence, John walked over to the door. He opened it, and stopped in the doorway. He turned back and looked at both of them.

"I'm sorry. I know I'm being harsher than I would normally be, but this has been a bit of an odd day!"

Then he was gone.

Sherlock smiled. "That went better than I expected." Molly glared at him. "Oh, it's not as bad as he makes it out to be. He'll need some time to cool off. I imagine he'll call again sometime tomorrow morning."

Molly nodded and sat down. She rested her head in her hand. Her head was starting to throb, and she felt like she might throw-

The door opened again and John came back in. He looked at Sherlock, uncertain again. "You're alive? Like, really alive?"

Sherlock nodded, and John crossed the room to him. He threw his arms around him and sobbed. Sherlock rested his head against John's, and his hands moved around to his back. After a while, John stopped sobbing, and he leaned back. "You glorious son of a bitch." His hands moved up to Sherlock's cheeks, and he pressed his lips to his. He had only intended to kiss him for a brief moment, but this was more intimate contact than they'd ever had before.

Suddenly, all those old, fleeting fantasies came flooding back to him; Sherlock curled up with him on the couch, in his bed, sharing a shower together. The ones he'd dared not entertain. All of those memories came rushing back to him in that brief moment of contact and he suddenly found he couldn't tear himself away. Certainly not once he felt Sherlock pressing back against him, lips parting slightly, inviting him in.

Molly's heart sunk as she watched them. She got up as quietly as she could manage and made to leave. John noticed, and he broke the kiss, turning to her.

"Oh, fuck. Molly. I'm sorry." He moved to her and grabbed her hand, but she shook it away.

"No. Don't. I get it. He came first, and after everything...I don't blame you." She was trying to hold back her tears, but they were soon rolling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry."

John's mouth hung open, but he didn't know what to say. He hadn't intended to kiss Sherlock. He didn't know what he felt for him. One kiss with the excitement of his return was not enough to tell him that. He did know what he felt for Molly, though. He'd spent enough time in her arms to know that he loved her.

Sherlock watched them, confused. "What's the matter?"

John and Molly turned to him together, eyebrows raised. "What's the matter?" Molly asked. "You really don't understand people, do you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not particularly. I understand enough, though. The two of you are in love."

"And he kissed you!"

"That doesn't change what he feels for you."

John turned to Molly, and nodded. She shook her head. "No. You can't love me and him."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "I was under the impression you had feelings for both of us."

Molly was stunned. Of course he knew that she had had feelings for him, but that she still did? "I- uh- I don't-" John looked at her, eyebrow raised. "I don't know, John. I'm so sorry."

John nodded, feeling anger rise within him. "Oh, I see. So he was my competition?"

"No! I mean, I- no! He's not competition, I swear."

"Is that because you don't fancy him, or because you don't fancy your chances with him?"

Molly made to answer, but she couldn't. She'd lied to John enough, and to herself. That was an unresolved question she'd been asking herself in private; a shame she kept hidden. "Look, I don't know! I had feelings for Sherlock, yes. I don't know if I still do. But I know what I feel for you, John." She took a deep breath. "I love you."

She saw the flicker of a smile on John's lips, but then it was gone. "I love you too, but…Jesus, Molly, we need to address this. Can you tell me you're not in love with him?"

"Can you?"

The silence stretched between them. Neither of them could deny it, and they both knew it.

Sherlock smiled. "Well, it seems as though we've reached a solution."

John almost laughed. "How the hell do you figure that?"

He shrugged. "You have feelings for Molly and I. Molly has feelings for both of us. And I…well, I have feelings for both of you." He saw that neither of them were getting it. He sighed. "Oh, ordinary people. So limited. We only get one life - well, most of us. Must we waste it by limiting ourselves to ridiculous social mores?"

John fumed. "Ordinary people? Can you go two minutes without being an arrogant twit?" He sighed. "What you're talking about is insane! We couldn't do that." John shook his head again. He buried his head in his hands. "I can't. This is too much!"

His breathing was getting quicker. Molly's anger dropped in an instant and she moved to place an arm on his shoulder.

He jumped back at the touch. "No, please. Don't. Just leave me alone, please. I don't want to be touched right now. Not by y- not by anyone."

He looked up at her. For a brief moment their eyes met and she could see the pain in them.

"I'm sorry for…that," he said, waving his hand towards Sherlock. "I really didn't mean to." He turned to Sherlock. "Forget it ever happened."

With that, he turned and left. They could hear his footsteps down the hall, muffled by the carpet, for a few seconds. Then a while later, the door to the building opened and closed. He was gone.

Which left Molly, standing there with Sherlock. She felt betrayed. She shouldn't feel betrayed. She's the one who'd lied to John as he was falling in love with her. She knew this would probably end them, and that she didn't have a right to expect anything of him right now, but still, she felt betrayed.

And not only by John.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Molly, I-"

"Get out," she interrupted. He made to speak again, but she didn't let him start. "Out of my house!"

Sherlock left quickly. He didn't apologise. She wasn't sure if she'd have liked him to. She went to the bathroom and threw up.

* * *

Molly went back to work on Monday as usual. Three new bodies in the morgue. A few police officers came down to inspect one of them, a murder victim. She remained silent throughout their visit. They'd figure out it was his boss in a few days, probably. It'd taken her most of the morning to figure that much out.

Seems that Sherlock might have been rubbing off on her a bit. The thought gave her an involuntary shudder.

She left at five o'clock exactly. She usually worked quite late, but the last place she wanted to be right now was in a place filled with dead bodies and laboratory equipment - in other words, a playground for Sherlock.

Her anger towards John had subsided by the time she awoke the next morning. His actions were out of character. He'd just found out that his best friend - who he was evidently in love with - had come back from the dead. And that she'd been lying to him the whole time.

Sherlock, though. He should have known better. He may not have been able to prevent the kiss, but he didn't have to return it. And it wasn't exactly half-hearted, either. She remembered John's tongue sliding into his mouth. She felt sick.

And the things he'd said after. She didn't know where to start. It was insane. Did she really want to watch the two of them locked together like that every day? She couldn't really believe she'd ever mean as much to either of them as they did to each other.

Sherlock knew so much about people, but he didn't understand them one bit.

She walked up the stairs to her flat. She went to open the door, and noticed that the handle was slightly damp. Someone with a sweaty palm had held it, and recently. There was also a hair stuck in the grain of her door - medium length, black, curly. The wall beside the door seemed to have caught some fibres very much like the ones on Sherlock's coat.

She turned the handle and pushed the door cautiously, but it was still locked. She entered and did a quick sweep of the flat. Nothing seemed out of place. Sherlock had definitely come, but it seemed he hadn't entered. She was still furious. She picked up her phone and sent an angry text to Sherlock.

"Stay away from my place - MH"

She made herself some tea and flopped angrily onto the lounge. There was nothing interesting on the telly, but she watched it anyway. Apparently Britain does have talent.

* * *

"Why did you kiss him?"

Well, that was the question. They'd already talked about the anger he felt. He was furious, and it didn't seem to matter much who with. He was mad at Sherlock for leaving him. Mad at him for hiding himself, for not trusting him. Mad for using Molly like he had.

And he was mad at Molly for lying to him. For going along with it. For concealing someone he knew she had feelings for while they were dating. He felt like their whole relationship was a lie - one she never would've entered into if Sherlock hadn't asked her. Yes, he was jealous. Why shouldn't he be?

He was also mad at Sherlock for suggesting what he had. How would it have worked? The three of them. It'd never be equal. He'd always know that the only reason Molly even took the time to learn his name was because Sherlock asked her to. It was all because of Sherlock, and he'd always come second. He already had been. He'd just not realised it.

"I don't know," he lied. "I suppose it was just the shock of seeing him."

"I'd understand you doing something out of character, certainly. I'd have expected you to take a swing at him. But you kissed him. Why?"

John sighed. "Okay, you want me to say it? I fancy him." She was nodding slowly. "I guess, in some way, I always have." He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. "I never really let myself admit it to anyone. Not even me. But, he…he did so much for me. I met him and he knew me like no one knows me, ever. It was…it felt like a kind of intimacy. And I guess I wanted more."

"Have you ever been with a man before?" John shook his head. "Do you consider yourself to be straight?"

John leaned back. "Yes. I mean, mostly, I guess. We all get curious sometimes. I've never acted on it, but there have been times…people…I've wanted to. But I've only ever been with women."

"And now that you've kissed another man?"

John just shrugged. "I don't feel any different. I mean, I know there's nothing wrong with it. My sister's gay. I never thought I might be. I just liked blokes a bit."

"Even with Sherlock?"

She had him there. It had always been different with Sherlock. He'd had fleeting attractions before, lasting a couple weeks. Never something like with him. It had played on his mind, and he supposed it had worried him. He knew there was nothing wrong with it, but that's always something you say for other people. The thought that you might be is terrifying.

He was silent for some time. "Okay, let's talk about Molly."

Fuck. Molly.

"How do you feel about her? Not generally, but right now, in this moment?"

"Well, that's easy. I'm mad."

"At Molly?"

"Of course. She deceived me."

"In what way?"

He laughed. "What, you think it's fine what she did?"

"I didn't say that. I just want you to tell me in what ways she deceived you."

"She lied to me about my best friend being alive. She lied to me about why she was seeing me. She lied about her feelings for me."

"Did she? I won't argue that she didn't lie about Sherlock. Although I will ask that you keep in mind that she was keeping a secret that was not hers to reveal.

"But when she first came to you, it was to provide company and comfort. Sherlock may have encouraged her to do that, or asked her, but that is what she said. I doubt that Sherlock instructed her to seduce you, given his professed feelings for you."

John shook his head. "Our whole relationship was a lie!"

"How do you figure?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn't think of anything to say. She had come to him to comfort him. And she was right that Sherlock wouldn't have asked her to seduce him. Had that part been genuine?

"What about her feelings for Sherlock?"

"You have feelings for Sherlock."

"I thought he was dead."

"You don't anymore. How do you feel about her? Generally, not in this moment."

* * *

There was a knock on the door. Loud, fast knocking. Molly awoke with a start. She looked around, dazed. The wall clock read half five. The sun was low in the sky. The ice cream in front of her was half melted, the telly muted. The blanket she'd pulled over herself had been kicked away.

The knocking again. She groaned as she rolled over and pulled herself to her feet. She shuffled over to the door, pulling her jacket around her. She looked through the peephole and sighed.

She opened the door, but not enough for him to enter, and she kept her hand on it, blocking his way. Sherlock initially smiled when she answered, but it had fallen somewhat when seeing her demeanour.

"I told you not to come here anymore," she said flatly.

"Yes, I know, but I'm afraid there isn't time to waste. Please, I have to talk to you." She stood firm, glaring at him. He sighed. "I've discovered something about the case. Ronald Adair. It seems I still have unfinished business."

He raised his eyebrows as he said this. Unfinished business, connected to Moriarty. That meant that there could be danger. John could be in danger.

She pushed the door open and dropped her arm reluctantly. He pushed through and entered the flat, removing his gloves. He looked around at the once-tidy flat. Plates were piled up on the table, used cups on the coffee table. There were bits of discarded clothing over the backs of chairs and in a small pile on the floor - most embarrassingly, a piece of lingerie which he guessed had been intended for John.

She didn't bother to explain the mess. She moved past him to the lounge and sat back down, pulling the blanket over her again. She stared up at him coldly.

"Molly, I-" he started, but he couldn't seem to continue. He hung his head. "I'm not very good at…this. Dealing with people."

"No, really?"

He pulled one of the table chairs towards him and sat in it, facing her. "I did not expect what happened. It took me by surprise." That was about as close as Sherlock came to an apology.

"Surprised you into kissing him back?"

He paused. "Yes. I would not have done so normally."

She laughed. "Come on, Sherlock. That was more than a peck. You had his tongue in your mouth!" She felt sick as she said it.

"Obviously, I can't deny that there are feelings there. I admitted as much. But I would not have acted on them without discussing it first had I more time to consider the situation."

Molly looked down at her hands. Discuss it? Why? Was it just because she and John were seeing each other? Or was it more than that? She needed to ask something, and she hated that this was what concerned her at the moment, but she needed to know.

"You said, after, when you were talking about your…solution…you said you have feelings for me." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "What kind of feelings? For how long?"

Sherlock took his time forming an answer. The way he'd told her was not ideal. He hadn't intended to do it like that. Realistically, he'd never thought he would, but at those times he allowed for flights of fancy, it was certainly not his preferred method.

"I have romantic feelings for you. Quite similar to what you and John feel for one another. I'm not sure when those feelings arose. I suppose it started sometime around Christmas. Spending so much time with you recently has intensified those feelings."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He chuckled. "You know how I am at expressing emotions. Particularly when it would make me vulnerable." He hung his head. "Ironically, if it hadn't been for the extenuating circumstances of that day, I doubt I'd have ever said it."

She didn't plan what happened next. She moved her feet over and patted the bit of lounge next to her, beckoning him over. He obliged and sat next to her. She'd intended for it to be a gesture of forgiveness, or understanding.

But as soon as he sat, her hand was on his thigh. She ran it up to his hip and turned, moving closer to him as she did. His head darted forward and their lips locked together.

* * *

The kiss lasted a few minutes before she broke it and pushed away. She asked him to leave, but he insisted that they needed to discuss John. He needed to talk to him. She'd promised she'd do her best, but she couldn't have him stay.

And so, here she was, outside his practice. She knew he liked to go to lunch at 12:30 when he could manage it. The only reason he'd deviate was for a patient, so he'd never leave early. So she arrived five minutes before and waited.

And waited.

It was quarter to one when she decided to go in and check on him.

"Sorry, Doctor Watson's sick today. Has been all week."

Her heart sank. "Oh, I see. Do you know when he might be back?"

She shrugged. "Not yet. He says it's a tricky one."

"Thank you." She left and hailed a taxi. She gave the driver John's address.

After she paid, she climbed the steps and pressed the buzzer for his flat. No response. She did it again, once, strongest under the half second. Nothing.

She saw someone turn into the hallway, heading for the door: and a young woman with a small boy. She quickly turned and tried to make it seem like she'd just been heading in as they opened the door. She exchanged a quick thanks and made her way down the hallway.

She knocked on his door. There was no response. She had a very bad feeling about this. She turned the handle and discovered the door wasn't locked. She pushed it open and walked in, doing her best to keep quiet.

The place looked fairly normal. In fact, it barely looked lived in. There were no mugs lying about as usual, no plates with toast crumbs. The stacks of paper hadn't been touched. She made her way to his bedroom quietly. The door was ajar. She pushed it gently and peaked in.

The stench of whiskey hit her. He was lying in bed, sprawled out unnaturally. He was wearing his jacket and trousers from the night before. He even had his shoes on. An open bottle of whiskey sat on its side, half drained. It looked like he'd been holding it when he fell asleep.

She walked over and sat carefully on the bed next to him. She shook his shoulders softly. He groaned and fell asleep again. She shook him a bit more forcefully. Nothing.

"John," she said firmly as she shook him again.

This time he woke up, startled. He made to roll over, but felt someone there and went the other way. He'd rolled right into a beam of sunlight streaming through the window. He let loose a strangled cry and raised his hand to cover his face. His other found a bit of blanket and pulled it over his face.

Molly crossed to the window and drew the curtains. "There you go, no more sun."

"Oh, thank you, bless you, you're an-" He'd dropped the blanket and seen who was standing at his window. "Oh, fuck."

"How much did you drink last night?" He shrugged as he rolled back over to face away from her.

She sighed and left the room. She got a clean cup from the kitchen and filled it with cold water. She brought it back and stood over him with it. "Come now, you have to drink some water."

He lifted himself up and reached over the edge of the bed for the bottle of whiskey. He took an awkward swig and gagged slightly, then slumped back onto the bed, dropping the bottle.

Over the next ten minutes, she managed to get him awake and drinking water. He didn't talk to her, though. She made some scrambled eggs for him and stood awkwardly.

"Listen, I have to get back to work," she explained. He nodded, not meeting her gaze. "I know you're mad at the moment. But Sherlock needs to talk to you. It's important."

"Need another grieving widow for a faked death?"

She pulled out a piece of paper and quickly scribbled Sherlock's number on it. "He's using a new phone, of course. Here's his number." She held it out to him, but he didn't move for it. She placed it on his table. "Please call him. He's only ever wanted to do what's best for you. He still does."

He didn't see her out.

* * *

She had tea waiting when Sherlock arrived. He'd texted her twenty minutes earlier. Enough time for a quick shower, though her hair was still wet. She'd managed to move most of the mess into her room. And she'd just finished making tea when the buzzer sounded.

"Hello?" she asked.

"It's me," he replied. Definitely Sherlock. He never came in that way. He always managed to gain entry to the building by some other means, and usually to her flat, too. She buzzed him up, and about half a minute later, there was a knock on her door.

They did some friendly greetings, but nothing more than friendly. She picked up her mug and took it to the lounge, expecting him to join her, but he sat at the table. It shouldn't have disappointed her, but it did.

"So, how's things?" she asked stupidly.

He nodded. "Under control. For now."

"The situation with Adair?"

"Progressing."

"We never got to talk about that," she pointed out.

"No, we didn't. Quite simple, really. You recall I said that Moriarty did not have much of an inner circle?" She nodded. "Well, what little he did have seems to be here, in London."

She gulped. "How many?"

"One man."

"One man? That was Moriarty's inner circle?"

Sherlock nodded. "A master, and an apprentice. Always two, never more."

"Okay then. How dangerous is this man?"

"Very," Sherlock replied. "I believe that he is after me. I do not yet know if he is aware that I'm alive, or simply looking for evidence. Which is why I need to talk to John. If he learns too soon that I am alive, he may execute the fallback plan."

The fallback plan. The death of Sherlock's friends, including John.

"How is John?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I underestimated the grief he would experience when I returned. He's taken to drink, as you know. He spends most of his time at the pub. He's not been to work for over a week now."

"Do you think he'll be alright?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. There've been no signs that he may be planning irreparable harm to himself. But it is not the danger he presents to himself that I'm worried about. If he continues like this for much longer, he could put himself in harm's way very easily."

He averted his gaze, and tried not to sniff too loudly. Was he on the verge of tears?

"Sherlock," she said. He looked up at her, and his eyes were glistening. She moved over. "Come over here."

He stood and crossed to her, leaving his tea behind. She placed a hand over his on his thigh, and moved the other around his shoulders. His muscles tightened at her touch, but slowly relaxed.

"Talk to me," she whispered.

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes met hers. "I can't let any harm come to him. I did my best to protect him and look at where he is now. I've failed him so much already. I won't do it again. He will not suffer any more on my account."

She nodded. "You love him?"

He turned his head away from her. "You must understand that whatever I feel for him does not alter what I feel for you."

She didn't want to admit it, but she did understand. After all, she loved them both. She'd dismissed the possibility, but had she done so too soon?

It hardly mattered. John had barely looked her in the eye when she last saw him. Whatever had existed between them seemed to be broken beyond repair. She no longer had John.

"I love him, too," she said, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "There may be nothing between us now, but we need to protect him. And we will. Between the two of us, we can't fail."

She looked up and saw him smiling at her, a tear rolling down his cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, and his eyes fluttered closed at the contact. She moved her hand to the back of his head, into his curls, and pulled him towards her.

* * *

"Isn't this illegal?" she asked as Sherlock knelt in front of the door to John's building. It was late at night. He was busy picking the lock, but he looked up at her with a slight grin.

"It is this illegal activity to which you most object?" He was referring, of course, to the death of his enemies. It was odd, loving someone you knew had killed. He'd done so to protect the people he cared about. He had no choice. These reasons shouldn't have been enough for her, but now she was one of the people he cared about.

He made short work of the lock. He stood and opened the door, and they made their way to John's apartment. Sherlock knocked rapidly, but there was no response. They hadn't expected one. He'd not answered when they buzzed, and Sherlock had not wanted to try any of the neighbours as his face, even covered as it was now, was rather recognisable.

Sherlock inspected the lock, and pulled out his kit. He was halfway through picking the lock when the door swung open. There was John, in a bath robe. He'd not been expecting them, obviously. His mouth hung open as he stared down at Sherlock, on his knees in front of him, and then up to Molly, wide eyed with terror.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he said after a minute.

"What's that?"

The voice had come from down the hall. Bedroom, not bathroom, judging by the lack of echo. It was a woman's voice.

"Nothing, there's someone here," he called out.

Sherlock stood and popped his head in. If he was expecting to be seen, he needed to make sure he was not recognised. There was no one there. The voice had been distracted. He guessed she was getting dressed.

Molly had gone white as a sheet. He had a woman over, and she'd guessed she was getting dressed, too. John was in his bath robe, but he hadn't showered. He'd been sweating recently, though. His forehead still shone slightly and his cheeks were flushed.

The usual post-coital glow one might expect, however, was gone. He was scowling at them. He hadn't heard them buzz, of course. He'd been otherwise occupied. He had heard the knock, but had been naked when it came. It had taken him a while to get to the door, and when he did, he found these two trying to break in.

Neither Molly nor Sherlock had spoken. Molly was shocked and Sherlock was worried about how she was taking it. John sighed. "I ask again, what the fuck are you doing here?"

Sherlock straightened. "We've come to talk to you."

"Yeah? Well I have nothing to say to either of you."

"Then just listen."

At that moment, the woman came down the hall. Sherlock reacted quickly and spun away, moving down the hall and up the next flight of stairs. Molly was left there, staring at a tall, blonde woman. She was attractive, and obviously dressed for a night out.

"Ooh, she's pretty," the woman cooed as she came to stand behind John. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her chin on his shoulder. Molly could smell vodka on her breath, but she didn't seem to be intoxicated.

"Yeah, she is," John replied coldly. His eyes were locked on her. She found the woman's gaze intimidating, though she seemed friendly enough. She had to avert her gaze before long.

"Well," she said, letting go of John. "I'd best get going." She'd obviously sensed the tension. As she'd moved back, she'd slipped a piece of paper into John's pocket. Probably her phone number. She moved past Molly and into the hall. She gave John a flirtatious wave as she walked off. "Bye, John."

He waved back at her, giving a half-hearted smile in return. "Mary". She disappeared down the stairs.

Sherlock came back down the hall after she'd left. She'd not seen him. "Can we come in?" he asked.

John shook his head. "No, you can't. I'd like you both to leave. I have work to do."

"You've not been into work for over a week," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John pursed his lips. "You know I don't like it when you turn your spies on me."

"Unavoidable, I'm afraid. The situation has grown rather serious. Your life could be in danger."

John stepped back. "Well, I'm not sure I care." He began closing the door.

"John, please," Molly begged. "We'll only be here for a few minutes, then we'll leave."

John sighed and opened the door for them. They entered. The flat was much the same as it had been. He was obviously still spending most of his time at the pub, save for the occasional hook up.

Sherlock crossed and sat on the lounge. Molly sat next to him, not thinking much about how it would look. John raised an eyebrow, and she quickly moved to the opposite end from Sherlock.

"Be quick," he said simply, standing with his arms folded.

Sherlock nodded. "I never got the chance to explain why I had to go into hiding to you."

"Not interested," John interrupted.

"It's importa-"

"Not. Interested."

Sherlock sighed. "Very well. Let's just say there is someone in this city who wants me dead. I do not yet know if he knows I'm alive, but if he can't have me, then he will have my friends."

John's eyes flicked to Molly, then back. Friends. Were they still just friends?

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"For your own safety, you have to act normally," Sherlock continued. "I'm not ready to make a move yet. If he discovers that I am alive before I have identified him and laid my trap, he will undoubtedly turn to you."

John nodded. "Okay, I'll act normally. Now, get out."

Sherlock sighed. "You don't understand. You can't just mourn openly. You've been making progress in dealing with my death, and if you suddenly change your behaviour, he will wonder why."

"Bit late for that, don't you think?"

"Yes. You've been acting very out of sorts. But you need to minimise the damage. Go back to how you were before. And wait for me to tell you it's safe."

"How I was before?" He looked over at Molly. "You want me making out with your girlfriend all over London? That's what I was doing before." Molly had to work hard to suppress the urge to slap him for that.

Sherlock hesitated. "I would be most pleased to see the two of you reconcile. Whatever that leads to is up to you."

Molly sighed inwardly. Sherlock hadn't denied that there was something between them now. And John had not missed that.

John leaned over, fists resting on the table in front of Sherlock, his face barely four inches away. Sherlock pulled back, alarmed.

"I will not keep your secrets. I will not come running to you whenever you ask to do your bidding, and I will not put on a mask for your convenience."

He stood and walked back to the door, holding it open for them. They both stood and left. No one bothered to say goodbye.

* * *

"You've been staring at those pictures for hours," Molly moaned. Sherlock had long since given up his habit of being there when she arrived home, but he often dropped by after she'd finished work. Usually he brought a stack of papers with him, sometimes folders filled with pictures. Mostly of dead bodies. It might have bothered anyone else.

"I don't need to rest," he muttered, rearranging the photos again. "I'm not tired." He often stayed the night, having nowhere else to go or needing somewhere safe and comfortable to think. She kept blankets and pillows out for him to sleep on the lounge. The pleasant upshot was that he was often there when she woke up in the morning.

"Well, I need to go to bed soon."

This got his attention. He looked over at the clock on the wall. It was almost eleven. "How soon?"

She grinned. "Ten minutes?"

He nodded and stood up. She held out her hand and he took it as she led them over to the lounge. They sat down facing each other, and wasted little time.

They were soon in a tight embrace. She pushed him onto his back and went to work sucking his neck. He moaned loudly, writhing beneath her. She'd discovered a few days earlier that his neck was very sensitive. Biting and sucking and gentle kisses went down well with him.

They'd not progressed to sex yet. At first she'd thought he was a virgin, but she'd learned otherwise. He had when he was younger, but not for about ten years now. She got the impression that it was not a pleasant memory for him. He kept it well hidden.

That didn't stop the reaction she felt against her belly right now, though. He was panting as she switched to soft kisses, moving ever so slightly against him.

"Molly," he interrupted. She stopped and sat up. He looked troubled.

"What's wrong?"

He thought for a minute. "What you were doing. It was nice. But I'm not ready for…that."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" She crossed her legs and sat at his feet. "I wasn't intending to take it further."

He nodded and sat up, adjusting his trousers. "I know. It's just, with that contact, I was beginning to."

She giggled softly, then moved over and put an arm around his waist. He rested his head on her chest and they sat together.

"I'm not sure I could right now anyway," she said.

"John?"

She nodded. "It's stupid. I shouldn't feel guilty. He's made his feelings about me quite clear."

He raised his head and stroked her cheek softly. "One of the things I love about you, Molly. You can't help but care about the feelings of others. It's the same reason I loved him." She closed her eyes and smiled. "And you still love him, don't you?"

She nodded. She'd gotten quite comfortable with the idea that she could love someone else and Sherlock simultaneously, and that he could, too. Even if thinking about that other person caused her great pain. Even now, in Sherlock's arms, she yearned for John's touch. When you abandon the idea that you must have only one romantic love, they cease to be as interchangeable. She was happy with Sherlock, but he did not fill the John-shaped hole in her life, and she did not fill his.

A tear rolled down her cheek. Soon, she was sobbing, and it was her turn to be held. He wiped away her tears and kissed her cheeks gently. And that night, for the first time, he slept in her bed.

* * *

"Deep breaths. You can do this."

John stepped up to the door. He pressed the buzzer. There was silence for a few moments.

"Hello?" Her voice was bright and cheerful. That was good, right? It was a very shameful part of him that was disappointed by it.

"Hi, it's John," he said. "I was wondering if we could chat? If you're free."

She paused. "Yes, yes. Of course. Come on up."

The buzzer sounded and he pushed the door open. Soon he was in front of her door. He knocked, his heart pounding. He still didn't quite know why he was here, or what he wanted to say to her. All he knew was that he'd missed her terribly.

It took a while for her to answer the door. She smiled at him, but it was forced. He could tell. She gestured for him to enter. And as he did he saw that Sherlock was there, sitting at the table. He was hunched over a stack of papers and photos. He recognised some of them. The Adair case.

Quick scan of the apartment. Toast crumbs in two places on the table. He'd had breakfast here. Blankets and pillow at the end of the lounge. He'd spent the night. They were neatly folded, though, and it was early morning. Possibly he'd not used them, as he'd had other sleeping arrangements.

Sherlock turned to him and smiled as he entered. Dear lord, was there a single genuine expression in the flat this morning? "Hello, John."

"Sherlock," he replied, nodding curtly.

"Would you like some tea?" Molly asked. She pulled out a chair for him, but he shook his head. "Okay. Well, can I take your coat?"

"I'd rather keep it on," he replied. He was uncomfortable. He didn't want to settle in in any way. He was already itching to leave. "I just came to say something to you. And I'd rather do it alone."

Sherlock looked at Molly, and she nodded. She hadn't even looked at him. Look at how in sync they are, with their non-verbal communication. Sherlock stood, bowed his head to John, and moved down the hallway. He heard the door to Molly's bedroom open and close. He could have been subtle about it, at least.

"What is it?" Molly asked. Her arms were crossed, but her right leg was slightly forward. Confusing body language. He supposed she was probably rather cross at him, and she had every right to be.

He was still drinking heavily. But he'd managed to see his psychiatrist regularly. He'd talked through his anger at Molly, and come to realise that it was largely misplaced. His suspicions were founded on feelings of inferiority, not on reality. Over the past few days, his anger at her had subsided. True, she was now seeing Sherlock, but he'd hardly been fair towards her. He didn't blame her for seeing someone new after that. And he could hardly be cross at her for harbouring feelings for him, given his own.

He cleared his throat. "I just want to say I'm sorry."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that it?"

He nodded. "I can't explain what I did. I was stupid, selfish, and mean. I judged you unfairly. If I tried to explain myself, I'd wind up making excuses, and there aren't any good ones."

She uncrossed her arms and moved onto the chair. She was silent for a while. He could see her eyes getting wet, but she didn't cry.

"Thank you," she said, after about half a minute. "And I'm sorry, too."

"What for?"

"For keeping secrets from you."

He pulled out a chair and sat in it. "It wasn't your secret to reveal. I get that now. You were doing it for him."

She nodded. "Maybe. But I could've avoided what happened between us."

He hung his head. "I'm not sure I'd have liked that." Now his vision was blurring with tears. "We were only together for a while, but it was a hell of a time. I've rarely felt so content just to be with someone." He gulped loudly. "I don't think I'd trade those memories for the world."

Memories. The word cut through her and went straight to her heart. That's what they were now. Memories.

"John, did you mean what you said that day?"

He chuckled. "I said a lot of things. Which one?"

"You know which one." She reached out and took his hand. He might have recoiled, but the feel of her skin on his was divine. "Do you love me?"

John cast a glance towards her room. "Does it matter now?"

"Yes," she said simply.

He looked back at her, into her eyes. She was dead serious. "Yes, I do," he managed to choke out. He bit his lip as a tear rolled down his cheek again.

Her hand moved up and brushed away the tear. "I love you, too," she said. Another tear. Again, she brushed it away. Her hands framed his face now, and he looked up at her. A sorrowful smile crossed her face.

Then, she leaned forward, slowly. His breath caught, and he found himself moving forward, too. Their lips brushed gently together, cautious. All objections were swept from his mind at the feel of those lips. His tears flowed freely as they pushed against one another, mouths opening and closing. Her hands moved down his shoulders and along his arms, then she was off her chair and kneeling in front of him.

He joined her, and they knelt on the floor together, hips together, lips working overtime. They'd both missed this. Her hands moved under his jacket and over his chest while his moved down over her hips.

He finally pulled back from the kiss as an image of Sherlock floated up in his mind. Fuck. He couldn't do this. Angry as he was at Sherlock, Molly was with him now. This was wrong on so many levels. He was shaking when they parted, and she pulled him down, her arms around his shoulders and his head on hers.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay."

He shook his head. "No, it's not. It's not okay." He was finally getting control of his breathing now. "You're with Sherlock now. I shouldn't have kissed you."

"I kissed you as much as you kissed me," she pointed out.

"That doesn't make it right."

She pulled him back up and looked him in the eye. "It's really okay. Sherlock and I have talked about this. We discussed it again while you were coming up the stairs."

His brow furrowed. "Discussed it? What? You and me snogging?"

She nodded. "Yes. He knew this might happen today. He's okay with that."

John sighed. "This is his big suggestion from that day again, isn't it?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm just saying we did nothing wrong here."

"But you want it, don't you?"

"Yes," she responded, without hesitation. "I love you, John. And I love him. And I know you're both in the same position."

John chuckled. "Well, there you'd be wrong. I love you. But I don't love him."

She frowned. "I saw that kiss. And I saw the two of you for two years together."

The kiss. Why had he been so stupid? He hadn't even processed the situation yet. Then he kissed Sherlock and started pushing them both away.

"I did love him. Maybe I still do, a little bit. But more than that I am furious with him."

"Why? What did he do?"

"He faked his death."

"To save your life." He seemed surprised. "You never let him get it out, but you would've died if he hadn't. Right there, on that street."

John seemed unconvinced. "What's the one thing that matters most to Sherlock?"

He laughed. "For everyone to know how clever he is."

"Exactly. He needs an audience. He was desperate to clear his name. Nothing meant more to him, until you were in danger. He gave up everything he'd worked for, all the respect he'd gained, to save you."

John sat down on the floor. He rubbed his head. It was true. He knew it was true. But he didn't want to accept it right now. And he still didn't know what to do once he had. Loving Sherlock as well as Molly was not the sort of thing that seemed like it would make his life easier.

He stood up, and held out a helping hand for her, which she took. His arm slipped around her waist as she stood, and neither of them moved from that position for some time.

"I need to think about it," he said. She nodded. Then, somewhat awkwardly, "so, how liberal is this understanding you have with Sherlock?"

She giggled and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. They spent another three or so minutes in that embrace, a mix of arms and hands and lips and tongues.

They finally parted, and he turned to leave. As he did, something on the table caught his eye. He picked up one of the photographs. It was a gunshot victim. He rifled through the photos for a moment longer and picked up another.

"John? Is everything alright?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at her. "Oh, yes. Fine. Well, apart from these dead people here. I just thought…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head, putting the photos back down. "Nothing. Just a coincidence."

She saw him out, somewhat worried. He reassured her he was fine. She kissed him again, quickly, before he left.

She closed the door and leaned back on it, grinning to herself. Things were far from sorted, of course. But she'd gotten to hold him again, kiss him again. God, she'd needed that.

The door to her bedroom opened slowly. "Clear," she called out. Sherlock walked out. A few quick deductions told him they had indeed kissed. He was pleased, for the most part, although even he was not immune from the illogical grip of jealousy.

"I take it things went well?"

She nodded, still smiling dopily. She walked over to him and slipped her arms around his waist, her face resting on his chest. He held her for a few moments. Seeing her happy and having her in his arms was enough to wash away any negativity he was feeling.

Sherlock turned his head to the side. The stack of photos was lying on the table, but they'd been disturbed.

His eyes grew wide and he let go of Molly. He walked to the table and picked up the two photos. "Yes!" He rifled through the papers and collected some. Flicking through them, the grin he reserved for a good chase began to emerge. "Yes! That's it! Oh, John, I could kiss you!"

He packed the papers into the folder and tucked it into his jacket. He was halfway to the door when he remembered Molly was there. He walked over to her and kissed her quickly.

"I have an errand to run. I'll be back tonight. If you can, please get John here while I'm gone. I have to speak to him." He grinned. "The hunt begins!"

She smiled and kissed him again, then watched as he bounded out the door. This must be how John had felt all those years, knowing he was important, but that the work would always pull him away. She wasn't worried, though. She knew he'd be back when this one was done.

* * *

With a sigh, Greg sat down with his tea. It had been a long day. Harrison's funeral had been today, after a month missing. It was a typical officer's service. His fiancé had been there, comforted by his mother. Patrick himself was an orphan and an only child. Greg hadn't had the chance to get to know him well, but it seemed his friends were few. There were more from the force than from his own circle.

He turned on the telly and flicked idly through the channels. Nothing good on. He eventually turned it off in frustration and went to the bookshelf. He was looking through the titles when there came a knock on his door. He moved out to the hall and was walking down when another knock came from behind him. The back door?

He stopped by the table in the hallway, and pulled open the drawer where he'd stashed his pistol. He cautiously approached the door, treading lightly. With his pistol drawn and ready to fire, he slowly pulled back the curtain to get a look at his visitor.

"Jesus Christ!"

"I see your powers of deduction are as sharp as ever," Sherlock replied. Greg stood slack-jawed, staring at him. Sherlock tried to be patient, but it had never been his forte. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

He reached down and unlocked the door, pulling it open. Sherlock strode in as Greg looked on, dumbfounded. Sherlock crossed over to the table and produced a stack of papers. "Pardon, just in case you were thinking of placing me under arrest."

Finally, Greg dropped his gun. He walked over to the table, transferring the pistol to his left hand, away from Sherlock. He picked up the papers and examined them. They appeared to be genuine, but he wasn't sure he'd put anything past Sherlock at this point. Well, to be fair, he hadn't expected him to go and do a funny thing like be alive.

"Witnessed by Mycroft Holmes?" Greg asked, an eyebrow raised. "You got your brother to pardon you?"

"Perfectly legal, I assure you. You could go ask him if you like. I'm sure he'd appreciate the company."

Greg grunted and placed the papers back down. He kept the pistol clutched in his hand, just in case there was more happening here than he perceived, which seemed to usually be the case when Sherlock was about.

Sherlock took a deep, awkward breath. "Well, now that we're back to being good friends, do you mind terribly if we talk shop?"

"Shop?" Greg laughed. "Look, you may have gotten a pardon, but we have nothing to talk about."

Sherlock eyes narrowed. "I'm a consulting detective, and you're a police officer with an unsolved case."

Greg scoffed. "We don't need any help from you."

Sherlock sighed. "Very well." He pointed to Greg's left hand. "You sprained your wrist three weeks ago, playing racquetball, by the look of it, but you won the game. This week, you've averaged five hours sleep, up from four last. You're still single. Things with your ex-wife have been a little slow lately, much to the surprise of no one, but you had high hopes for a date last night. Probably best it didn't work out, though. You really shouldn't store condoms in your wallet for any length of time. You're worn out today, not by your workload, but by the fact that you attended the funeral of one of your detectives. Junior, new on the job, would explain the guilt, unless you killed him yourself, of course. Now, are we done with this part of the conversation, or do I need to tell you why you should give up your juice fast?"

Greg never had been comfortable with Brook's story. He'd been working with Sherlock for a long time, and he could see how he may have fabricated some of those crimes, but all of them? The hound at Baskerville? That dog had been there for ages before Sherlock ever went, and surely Sherlock had not been involved in Henry's father's death. Then there was the bomber incident. Wesceslas had identified Moriarty as the mastermind behind the crimes. He'd supposed Sherlock could have orchestrated his own conversations with the bomber, but it was rather contrived. And, more than that, people had died in the incident. He never quite managed to believe Sherlock could be responsible for that.

Greg sat down and rubbed his forehead. He so wanted to believe - Christ, he wasn't sure what he wanted to believe. Did he want to believe that there was this brilliant sociopath who had chosen to put his mind to the task of protecting people, or that there was a mediocre psychopath who'd never shown him up? He couldn't explain away the evidence Brook had brought to light, but neither could he explain away everything he'd seen this man do. He'd never been a religious man, but he felt like this was a matter of faith.

So, what did he want to believe?

"You realise the Chief Superintendent will never allow me to work with you?"

Sherlock smiled, hands clasped behind his back. "After you solve this one, I wouldn't be surprised if you outranked him."

* * *

"Where is he?!" Sherlock was getting impatient. John had said he was on his way half an hour ago. His trap was now set, and he disliked deviations. Every moment John was not here was a chance for something to go terribly wrong.

"It's fine. Traffic's bad tonight." Molly didn't fully believe it. She was as worried as Sherlock, but she felt she ought to be the calm one at the moment.

She'd met John for coffee earlier. He was hesitant, still feeling unsure of the morning's events. And he was still distrustful of Sherlock. She'd told him everything she knew. He was very angry, and that's hard to let go of. He still hadn't, but at least he'd agreed to come by.

Five long minutes later, the buzzer sounded. John was here. She let him in, and shortly after he was knocking at the door.

"Sherlock," he said as he entered. His tone was more guarded than cold. That was a good sign.

"Good evening, John," Sherlock replied. He'd taken a seat on the lounge. A very comfortable position, in Molly's home. "I trust you're well?"

"It's been an interesting day." His eyes flicked over to Molly for an instant.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but ignored it. Straight to business, then. "I've laid my plans. With any luck, this whole affair will be done with this time tomorrow."

John nodded. "Good. What do you need me to do?"

"Stay safe. I've seen to the protection of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. They'll be safe enough. I need you to stay somewhere safe tonight and tomorrow."

John folded his arms. "Got anywhere in mind?"

Sherlock and Molly looked at each other. "No one outside of this room knows of my association with Molly. This flat should be safe enough."

He'd thought as much. "One problem, though," he replied. "People do know of my association with Molly. We weren't exactly hiding it."

Molly suddenly felt rather uncomfortable. She recognised male competition when she saw it. She didn't like the idea of being a prize these two fought over.

"Okay, boys. Put away the fangs," she said, surprising herself slightly. John and Sherlock seemed immediately regretful.

"Sorry, Molly," John said. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Good," she responded, a little heatedly. She looked over at Sherlock. He'd never say it, but she saw it in his look. Sherlock was not the world's best communicator when it came to anything personal or involving emotion. They were getting used to each other, though. He was learning to do much of the work non-verbally, and she was learning to accept this.

Sherlock turned back to John. "His primary objective will be to find and kill me. He is one man, and does not have the full network that Moriarty amassed at his disposal. Besides, intelligence on the man indicates that he's been in London for less than two weeks. It is highly unlikely that he has been tracking you that closely at all thus far.

"Nevertheless, precautions must be taken. If the situation gets out of hand, I will alert you immediately. In the interests of privacy, I've not informed Lestrade of your location tomorrow, but if it comes to it, I will."

John was not convinced. It would make more sense for him to get a hotel room tonight, and wouldn't be an inconvenience. It wasn't hard to see his motivation. He wanted he and Molly to reconcile. It wouldn't make sense for both of them to get a hotel room, after all, so the only way to put them together was for him to stay right here.

Sherlock seemed to think it was safe enough, though. And, honestly, as disconcerting as the thought of spending the night with another man's girlfriend was, it was Molly. And he wanted that.

He nodded. "Fair enough, then."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent."

Then, an awkward silence. They all wanted to talk about the same thing, and they all knew it, but no one knew how to start. As Molly was on the best terms with both of them, and knowing how stubborn two angry men in love could be, she figured she ought to.

"John, since you'll be staying the night, you might as well have a seat." He made for one of the chairs around the table. "Why not on the lounge?"

Sherlock and John looked at each other, unsure.

"Perhaps I should leave," Sherlock offered, beginning to stand.

"Stay where you are," Molly commanded. Sherlock sat instantly. She raised an eyebrow to John, who rolled his eyes and sat next to Sherlock. God, boys can be stubborn sometimes.

Molly pulled a seat over from the table and sat across from them. "We're finally in one place and civil. Now, I want you two to talk."

She sat back, waiting. John and Sherlock crossed their arms in unison. They were more alike than either of them would care to admit. Silence stretched between them. They both looked over at each other, eyes meeting sometimes before they turned away again. Sherlock looked at Molly, pleading, but she responded with a glare.

"Fine, neither of you wants to start. I will." Deep breaths. "John, you're mad at Sherlock, and I understand. You've had to grieve twice over him. You know why he had to do what he did, and today you finally accepted it.

"Sherlock, you're mad at John for the past three weeks, and I understand. He was grieving, though.

"I don't think anyone is happy with the way the past few weeks have panned out. Neither of you wants to forgive the other because you're both hurt and you have too much pride.

"But the two of you are so in love. I've seen it for the past two and a half years, and I saw it that day when you kissed. You may not want to be together at the end of this, but dammit, you are going to be friends. I've never seen two people closer than the two of you. That kind of friendship is once-in-a-lifetime.

"You both have regrets. Too many regrets. No more. Do you really want to go through life hating each other?"

Sherlock shook his head. John mumbled "no, ma'am".

John finally turned in his seat to face Sherlock. Sherlock followed suit.

That was as far as they got for a while. John sniffed loudly while Sherlock pulled a piece of lint from his trousers. John looked over to Molly. She nodded.

"Fine, I'll start. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I acted like a twit. I know that you did what you did to protect me. I know that you asked Molly to spend time with me for my benefit. And you didn't interfere with our relationship, which I appreciate.

"I'm mad. But it's not a righteous anger. I want to let it go, get past this, because you were the best friend I ever had."

Sherlock sighed, frowning slightly. Molly knew that he was fighting back tears.

"John," he stammered. "I must apologise also. I did not handle my return well. I did not fully account for the impact it would have on you, or your relationship with Molly. If I've not buggered it all up, I came damn close.

"I didn't have friends before you. Not for a very long time, at least. I never thought I could again. You showed me otherwise, and I feel…blessed…to have the friendship of someone so kind and pure of heart. I don't know how it happened, but you are a better friend than I could ever have hoped to have."

And now John was crying. He couldn't stop the first tear from rolling down his cheek, and seeing it, Sherlock lost his composure as well. It wasn't a massive display of emotion, but more than was usual for either of them. Particularly Sherlock.

John moved over and placed a hand on Sherlock's forearm, still wiping away tears. Sherlock's other hand moved over to rest on John's. They looked at each other, and suddenly started laughing.

"I've missed you, John."

"God, I missed you too."

Sherlock moved closer and placed an arm around John's shoulders, and John sank sideways into his arms. Sherlock looked over at Molly. She was grinning broadly. She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head slightly to the side, towards John. Sherlock chuckled.

"Hmm?" John lifted his head. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied. Molly bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"Are you two conspiring again?"

Molly shrugged and held up her hand, fingers held close. "Little bit."

John sighed and looked at the two of them. "You're really both happy with this, aren't you?" They nodded. "I suppose…I'm not saying it's not a nice idea. I just worry that, you know, I'd be some kind of runner up."

"Oh, John. You will never be a runner up. And neither will Molly."

"It's not really how it works," Molly spoke up. "It's hard to explain. You're very different people, I guess. I love you both in different ways, but neither one more, or less. You both offer me something similar but unique, and I'd never choose between them because they aren't easily comparable."

Sherlock nodded. "There's an old adage. Love is infinite. It certainly holds true for family members. At least for most people. Why would it not hold true for romantic attachments?"

"I guess I've never thought about it that way. Romance is something different. Something special."

"Yes, it is," Molly responded. "But in many ways, it works the same as other forms of love."

John looked between them. He knew he loved them both. And if he considered the possibility that he didn't have to choose - that he could love them both freely, completely - he could see what they were saying. Sherlock, the child-like genius whose antics amused and deductions amazed, and Molly, the warm-spirit with wisdom and comfort who could support him in so many ways.

John looked over to Sherlock, and held out his hand. Sherlock took it, their fingers lacing together. They smiled nervously at each other for a while.

Molly sighed. "Good. That's very good. Now, kiss!"

John and Sherlock laughed as they turned to each other. With John's other hand, he reached up, cupping Sherlock's cheek and those amazing cheekbones. He moved forward and kissed him. God, he'd barely had time to appreciate it the first time round. His face was all angles but when his lips parted he fit in so easily, his smooth face brushing past the growing stubble on John's cheeks.

They parted and looked over at Molly together, who was sitting back in her chair, smiling and breathing heavily. "God, watching guys make out is hot."

John chuckled. "Not bad from this side, either." He looked at Sherlock. "Should we ask her to join us? Or is this men's business?"

"Not sure I'm gonna fit, guys. It's a two-seater."

John raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. "I'll make some room." He sat up, and swung a leg over Sherlock's, straddling him. Finally, he was looking down at the man. Two and a half years he'd wondered what that would look like. He tilted his head and descended down upon him. Sherlock moaned as he ground his hips slowly against him.

He felt Molly sit down next to them. He broke away and looked over at her, sitting back with a smirk on her lips. John beckoned her over. She got up and knelt on the lounge next to him, and he kissed her while Sherlock's hands ran up his sides and over his chest.

* * *

Molly woke as the sun was rising. She looked around. Her left leg and arm were draped over John, who slept on. Sherlock had fallen asleep on his other side, but was already awake. He sat in a chair by the window in his underpants, staring out pensively. She saw that he had a nicotine patch on his thigh.

He looked over to her and smiled. "Morning, my dear." She rose slowly, careful not to disturb John. She didn't bother to cover herself with the sheet, and was pleased to see his eyes dart down over her body.

"You look troubled," she said simply. He nodded. She swung her legs out of the bed and went over to him. She crouched beside the chair and placed her hand over his. "Anything I can do to help?"

He stroked her hair with his free hand. "I'm afraid not. This final problem must be resolved today. It won't be easy, but I must do it alone."

"I think the boat's sailed on alone." John had woken up and was now propped up on his elbow. His eyes flicked from Sherlock to Molly, taking a brief moment to appreciate them before moving on. "You know I'll never let you go into trouble alone, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, and bowed his head. "In that case, as much as I'd love to stay, we should prepare. We have a long day ahead of us." He stood, and helped Molly up. She kissed him quickly before he had to leave. "If you don't mind, I'll have the first shower."

He crossed the room to the door, then stopped suddenly. His coat was hanging over a chair. He reached into the pocket, and withdrew a small box. "You'll need these," he said, throwing the box to John. Then he left.

Confused, John opened the box. Inside were three bullets from his revolver.

* * *

A bearded figure walked down Baker Street. He was wearing a long trench coat, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't slow as he walked past 221B, but his eyes darted up momentarily, and then around the buildings surrounding it. He kept walking to a cafe down the road, and sat down. He'd been visiting this cafe for some time now, and the waiter simply asked if he'd like his usual. He nodded.

He set his bag down carefully, making sure the contents didn't make any noise. He looked down the street, and saw the man he was looking for hop out of a cab in front of 221B, followed by his bumbling companion.

Sherlock Holmes. So, he was alive after all. The man who'd killed Moriarty, his mentor. He would have his revenge tonight.

The waiter came over with his usual order. "Here's you latte, Mr Moran."

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic was originally posted as No Regrets. I took it down and reworked the ending to provide a more believable character arc.
> 
> Thanks to my roommate, CJ, for her input into the original story and her suggestions for the rewrite. I think the story has benefitted greatly from her input.
> 
> Thanks also to my best friend, Miriam, for reading and making stylistic suggestions. Some scenes in this fic are much more satisfying for it.
> 
> Finally, thanks to this [Tumblr post](http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/post/16959757250/assassins-vs-gunmen), which helped me sort out the assassins and gunmen for the less romantic portions of the fic.


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